


Far From The Tree

by LittleLinor



Category: Cardfight!! Vanguard
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Gen, Hunger Games-Typical Death/Violence, More Characters To Come (TM)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-24
Updated: 2018-04-18
Packaged: 2019-03-23 12:41:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 29,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13787988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleLinor/pseuds/LittleLinor
Summary: You were made for this. It's like your entire life was conspiring from the start to prepare you for this.
Like these games were, in the sickest and most ironic way, your destiny.
You were always a weapon. But now, you're a weapon with purpose.Hunger Games AU





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Another AU? Another AU. I blame [Lily](http://archiveofourown.org/users/o0whitelily0o/pseuds/UselessLilium), although I sure made it worse.
> 
> This fic covers Chrono's games from his POV, but for more plot and context (and just some Excellent Content) please read their fics in the same universe!  
> [Faulty Sanctuary](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13490448) follows Shiranui in the aftermath of his games and the years after that (it'll technically spoil a couple of things for this fic, but hey, I'm not killing off my protag anyway)  
> [Good Intentions](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13739652) is about Kazumi and Kazuma.

Your name is Chrono Shindou, and on the morning of your fourth Reaping, like on the three reapings before that, you wake up feeling numb.  
It's not exactly unusual. You feel numb most of the time, or rather too caught up in acting and existing to ever register the numbness, with so much to do, but most days you have trouble waking up, as if part of you had spent the last few years trying to fall asleep and never wake up. Slipping away in the dead of the night. And you suppose part of you does, when you allow yourself time to actually think about it.  
Today, though, you wake up almost at dawn, with neither a jolt nor the sluggish fog that you're often wrapped in in the mornings. Just awake, suddenly, alert as if woken by danger.  
The house is silent. In the small bed under yours, your aunt is still sleeping, fitfully.  
For a few minutes, you let the silence seep into you. And then instead of calming it becomes unbearable and you get out of bed, hopping down lightly, silently, careful not to wake her up. You land in a crouch that absorbs the impact, wait a second, then straighten, pawing to the chair with your clothes on it. Normally you'd be making the both of you breakfast, but you don't feel hungry today, and even though the ritual of cooking a good meal would have helped you focus and calm yourself, you'd risk waking up Mikuru. So instead you throw your clothes on, leave the old ones neatly folded on the chair, a sign that you're out and about, and head outside.   
The air's still slightly cool. It's close enough to summer that the days are long and dawn early, but not deep into it enough that the night doesn't get rid of the afternoon's heat.  
But god, it's _early_. And with no school to go to, and everything else closed by force save for the minimal security maintenance staffs at the power plants and dams, you don't have anything to do.  
You _hate_ having nothing to do.  
You hate Reaping Day in general, to be fair. Watching other kids walk off to their deaths makes you sick—and you're a realist. It doesn't matter if your father was a Victor. It doesn't matter if you have another relatively young one currently serving as mentor. District 5 might be better off than the starving populations you see in 12, or in—ironically—10 and 11, but none of your children are trained for this, and the main industry you've been assigned doesn't exactly prepare you for fighting or surviving in the arena. Not this young, anyway. Any tribute who walks onto that stage is pretty much already dead.  
You hate it. It fills you with rage every time, one of the emotions still permeating the emptiness that's been wrapped around you for all these years. Every year two kids walk off, and you don't even feel relieved. You feel angry, and you feel ashamed.  
Last year, you almost volunteered. They'd called a small boy from the twelve year old group, a shy kid who'd looked around him as if searching for someone before walking forward in silence, tears running down his cheeks. He'd barely been able to say his name into the microphone. And Kouji, the entire time, had been sitting in his chair, his hands in his lap, clasped until they turned white enough that you could see it on the giant screen.  
And right then, you'd wanted to step in. You'd wanted to do something, _anything_ , to disrupt the feeling of inevitability that covered him, the tribute, everyone. Even if it cost you your life, you'd wanted to give them hope. To remind them that sometimes, someone cares.  
But your life's not yours to give. You can't leave Mikuru alone, not after she already lost her brother, not after everything she went through to drag you out of the community home and keep you with her and make things _work_. Keep you from starving. Work her way up from poverty into what would honestly pass for a comfortable middle class if the both of you weren't so compulsively frugal.  
You can't leave her behind.  
So you'd clenched your teeth and watched them and the older girl who'd been called before him walk off, and that night after forcing yourself to eat the nice meal you'd made with Mikuru (Reaping Day, at least, meant that she had time to cook with you) you'd stayed awake listening to her breathing and trying as hard as you could to convince yourself that you didn't have a choice.  
And then Kouji came back, a month later at the end of the Games and the following interviews and celebrations, and he'd looked even deader than usual.  
Part of you wanted to go see him. To try and cheer him up, the way you did when you were much younger and he hadn't yet hardened into the icy young man he is now. But what would you have even said to him?  
You're probably only a painful reminder of your father, and you didn't think he'd have wanted to see you.  
Frustration tickles at your skin. You bite it down, take a deep breath, and decide to cross town towards the one place that'll probably want your help.

The community home is a tall building with what passes for a playground at the front (grass, a swing set with peeling paint that thankfully doesn't look like it's about to collapse) and a rather large vegetable garden at the back. It's fenced off, with a scary looking gate leading to the playground. But instead of going to it, you take the round trip to the smaller gate at the back, the one with the bell that only rings in the kitchen and staff room.  
A minute later, a young man comes out of the back door and crosses the garden. You smile a little as you recognise him; everyone knows you here and most people like you, but Shin is definitely the best case scenario.  
“Shouldn't you be with your Aunt?” he asks, unlocking the gate to let you through anyway.  
“She's still asleep. I'd just drive myself and her crazy anyway, waiting until 2. Figured you wouldn't mind an extra hand here, considering…”  
You don't need to finish your sentence. Not only does every kid have to be dressed in good clothes for the reaping, but the community home has kids up to eighteen under its care. Several of Shin's wards are going to be in the reaping pools today.  
They might not need help to get dressed, but the stress is still palpable. Any help with the younger kids will probably be welcome.  
Shin sighs.  
“You know I won't. Well, we're waking everyone up in half an hour; you can start by setting up the tables.”

Setting up for breakfast is some serious logistics when you're caring for so many children. You head to the kitchen to gather a first pile of bowls, and give a small wave to the cook as you do.  
“What, you back?” he asks, not for the first time. “Miss us too much?”  
You're not very good at banter, so you just acknowledge the joke with a small smile. Thankfully, he accepts it without pushing.  
Ironically, you almost feel at home here. Much more than during the weeks you actually lived there. Back then you'd been struck with grief and confused, and the conditions in the home had been much worse, the tolerance for trauma and emotion and disruption in general low. But since then, Shin had taken over as head of staff, and things had gotten much better. And coming over to help had become something you genuinely enjoyed.  
Here, at least, people don't think you're scary. They know you as gruff but reliable, and the younger kids have adopted you as a big brother of sorts. It's nice, having people trust you. And you actually feel useful—more than at school, and more than at your actual jobs, where you'd mostly been useful simply by virtue of being short, strong, and willing to risk injury.  
By the time you've arranged all the bowls, glasses and spoons and started bringing in the large jugs of 'juice,' the first kids start coming into the hall, mostly early risers who had to wait for the wake-up call to get out of bed and go downstairs.  
“Chrono!” A little girls calls as she walks past the door, brightening despite her drowsy demeanour.  
You give her a little smile and a wave and wait for her to walk over to you, placing your last jugs on the table in the meantime.  
“Couldn't sleep?” you ask when she finally reaches you, her eyes red and blinking.  
“Mmm.”  
“… you'll be okay,” you try to reassure her, lowering your voice and patting her head gently. She's still got a few years to go, at least. She's safe—for now.  
Neither of you talks about when 'for now' won't apply anymore.  
“I know, but—what if someone gets reaped?”  
 _Someone from here_ , she means.  
You crouch a little and take her hands.  
“The odds are pretty low. We just gotta hope, okay? And if something happens, everyone here can take care of each other. I'm counting on you, okay?”  
She nods, a little tearful but less hesitant.  
It's true that the odds _are_ , so to speak, in their favour. One of the only good sides of the community home is that no one takes tesserae. They're not even _allowed_ to—it would make the charity and generosity of the government look bad, after all. So the younger kids only have their name in once, and the older ones six. No more, no less.  
The eighteen year olds, despite still being eligible for the reaping, are already considered adults and discharged from the home to find a job.  
You've taken tessera once, on your first year. You signed up for it without telling Mikuru, because it felt like an evidence to you—it was one of the only fights you ever had. She'd been mad and scared when she got home, and wanted to bring it back, but of course there's no going back.  
She didn't want to risk losing you. You'd argued that if they really wanted to take you, the odds in that ball don't mean anything anyway. You've seen too many Victor's children get reaped before for it to be a coincidence, and she knows you know why she was so scared of her last reaping, the one after your father disappeared, the one that could have sent you right back to the community home after she'd worked so hard to get you out of it with her the moment she turned eighteen.  
Victors' children get reaped and dissenter's children get reaped, just unfrequently enough that you can't prove it's rigged but frequently enough that everyone knows it is. But why would anyone say anything? A rigged pool is a pool in which your own kid's name is less likely to come up.  
In the end, you'd come to a compromise. This was the first and last time you'd take it. But in exchange, she'd stop questioning you working to help her. And you'd kept your promise. So today, if the balls really do follow the rules, there's six papers with your name in the reaping ball.  
You give her a smile. Looking confident is the best reassurance you can give her, because you refuse to lie.  
“Wanna give me a hand?”  
She nods, looking a little more alive, and helps you with the handful of jugs you had left, carefully lifting them from the cart to hand them to you so you'll put them on the tables.

After breakfast, you offer to help with the dishes, only to be sent off to help the younger kids get dressed.  
Honestly, it's the kind of thing you prefer doing anyway. Thoughtless, repetitive work is nice, but you can get that anywhere. But children—well, children almost make you feel alive.  
You spend an hour buttoning up shirts, tying shoelaces, reassuring, giving instructions, talking about your school or your work when asked. Seeing them so chatty makes you happy. The younger kids got there after Shin took over, and you can see the difference: no matter how much better the situation got, a lot of the older kids still have that look of prey about them. But the younger ones are more curious and trusting and willing to actually question things or have aspirations, even though for some of them the loss of their caretakers is still fresh.  
Grief heals. The slow suffocation of abuse and neglect? That takes much longer to mend.  
And that's the point of the hunger games, isn't it? By the time you've lived seven years under that pressure, there's something in you that's been changed forever. Just like you get used to the occasional violence at the hands of the Peacekeepers, keep your head low, and pray you won't be next. Because nothing you can do will make it better, but almost anything can make it worse.  
Once everyone's been assembled and lined up in the main hall and released into the playground (a rare treat, when normally they'd be headed for school at this hour), you go find Shin again.  
You find him in his office, with a glass of what looks suspiciously like alcohol.  
“Drinking's bad for your health,” you tell him out of habit, but there's no bite to it.   
He chuckles.  
“I'd offer you some, but I know you'd refuse.”  
“Of course I would. Anyway I was gonna go home unless you need me for something else.”  
“I think we'll be fine. Or as fine as we can be, at least.”  
You nod.  
“And you?” you ask him.  
“The good side of having so many people relying on you,” he says, “is that there's always something to do when you're at risk of collapsing. I'll be fine.”  
You wince, but you're smiling at the same time. Now _that_ 's a familiar feeling.  
“What about you, Chrono?”  
“Huh?”  
“How are you holding up?”  
You think about it for a second, then shrug.  
“Chrono…”  
“I've been fine until now, right? The whole paralysed with fear thing gets old fast.” You make yourself smile. “I'll be okay. It'll be over in a few hours.”  
One way or another.  
He sighs, but let's you go.  
“Say hello to Mikuru for me,” he tells you as you head out, through the front gate this time.  
“I will. Take care.”

By the time you make it back home, you find Mikuru awake, dressed, and working on some calculations at the table. Clearly, you're not the only one who needed to keep busy.  
She looks up when you get in, and although her eyes are tired, her smile is genuine, fond. It hurts.  
“Chrono. I made coffee.”  
You try your best to smile back.  
“Thanks.”  
You go pour yourself a cup. Coffee's one of the small luxuries you allow yourselves; it helps Mikuru focus when she works into the night, and makes you feel somewhat alert in the mornings, and more stable in the afternoons. And it's a taste of childhood, although back then you'd tasted it with a lot of milk and sugar in it, before you cut back on that and found out that you liked the taste better anyway.  
That first taste of black coffee that you and Mikuru bought together a few months after moving in together had been laced with such a feeling of victory that you'd have loved it even if you'd disliked bitter foods.  
“You didn't have breakfast yet, right?” you ask her, putting the pot back in place.  
She shakes her head.  
“I was waiting for you.”  
“… sorry. I was helping Shin.”  
“You don't need to apologise for everything, you know?”  
You don't know what to answer, so you just pull out a pot and get to work.

It's Reaping Day and you need the distraction anyway, so today you get a little extravagant. With the slowly cooked grain with milk and broth, you add not just the usual soft-boiled egg, but a small salad of greens and chopped fruits. You even break into your small stash of nuts to add some to the mix and sprinkle a few drops of honey on top before putting the bowls down.  
Maybe you could have made a little more in terms of quantity. It's late already, and neither of you will have lunch, probably. But you're not really hungry, and knowing her, she'll be struggling to eat that much too.  
She takes the food with a smile that makes you feel guilty and waits for you to sit before eating.  
You don't say anything. You don't know what to say, when all casual talk would feel so forced and awkward and fake. And any attempts to actually talk about what's on your minds would be too painful.  
Sometimes it feels like you've forgotten what it feels like to actually express your emotions. You used to be good at it, when you were a child. But now talking about it feels so pointless, and you lost the ability to over time; now, even when you'd have something important to say ( _I love you, I worry about you, please be okay even if I'm gone, please stop throwing your life away, please finally_ live), you find that you can't. The feelings stay stuck halfway between your chest and your throat, not even forming words and releasing them even less.  
You wonder if you'll end up like Kouji if you keep going. Blank-faced and impassive, locked inside your own mind and body with emotions you can't talk about and that almost no one can read.  
And you didn't even need to be in the arena for it. How's that for irony.  
“Oh yeah,” you say, finally, picking at some fruit. “Shin says hi.”  
“Oh, that's right. Maybe we should go talk to him before they go back this afternoon. I haven't seen him in ages.”  
 _That's because you keep overworking yourself_ , you want to say, but you stay silent. She knows. You know. At least it's not as bad as it used to be.  
Shin used to come and help every now and then, before he took over the community home. They're childhood friends, although originally he was more of a fan of your father.  
People keep whispering that they should get married. You don't think either of them would mind, but neither of them is madly in love with the other either. Mostly people just want the tragic Victor's sister to follow the script and get married and look happy now she has a man in her life again, and Shin's the only man in her reduced circle of friends who seems close enough. But you're kind of getting in the way of that scenario, both because you don't fit the image, and just because you know Mikuru wouldn't dream of getting married unless that marriage was strategically advantageous for both of you.   
And besides, no matter how much better it's gotten, you don't think she ever wants to live there again.  
But you do wish they'd see each other more, if only so Mikuru would see more people who aren't you or her coworkers.  
“You could go hang out afterwards, even.”  
“What about you?”  
“I can get started on dinner… that stew's gonna take a while.”  
She frowns.  
“I want to do it together.”  
You look away.  
“I…”  
The words don't come.  
She puts down her spoon and reaches across the table for your hand. You let her take it.  
“Chrono. Look at me.”  
You do. It's hard not to bite your lip.  
“I want to do this with you, Chrono. We get too little time together as is.”  
Because neither of you will stop working. Because the few years of desperate poverty have driven into you an instinctive fear, a compulsive urge to work and save and always be well stocked. Because after a while, neither of you knew how to _not_ work, idleness making you nervous and cranky or just making you sink back into nothingness.  
You miss when you were small, when the two of you had time to talk and play and just be together. You miss her.  
You nod, and this time your smile isn't forced, although it's small and almost teary.  
“So you'd better leave some of that cutting for me,” she says with a smile.  
You squeeze her hand, and she squeezes back.

A few hours and a lot of cleaning the house later, you're being herded into the large circular plaza that somehow manages to serve both as celebration location and official gathering space. Well, you suppose the games _are_ officially supposed to be festive. That's part of what makes them painful.  
You give Mikuru a short hug before going into the plaza itself. It might be big, but there's a _lot_ of you, and the reaping candidates take up a lot of the space already.  
What must it be like, to live in one of the smaller districts? You've seen the reapings for twelve, they've got maybe a few hundred eligible children at most. Split them by gender and age group, and your roped off square gets uncomfortably small. Reapings are scary enough, but the fewer people there are, the higher your chances.  
Five, at least, is pretty large, and they actually need peacekeepers to herd you all into your spots, after signing in the adults and directing them to one of the other meeting places where they'll be showing the reaping on screen.   
You're in the middle of the plaza, roughly. In front of you, the numbers grow bigger, with the eighteen year old pool being the largest.  
You wait. It's not two yet, but of course everyone comes early; setting up takes time, and no one wants to risk the penalty for being late because they were still queuing to be admitted. Around you, the roped off space gets more and more crammed, but no one ever bumps into you. People recognise you and whisper, stare at your hair, your face. You ignore them and let yourself space out, until the anthem plays.  
You snap out of it and shift towards the side of the area to get a better look at the stage and the screen. Sure enough, here they come, escorted by two Peacekeepers. The district's Mayor, looking too hot and uncomfortable in his dark suit. Rin Hashima, the Capitol escort that's been presiding over the Reaping for two years now, imperious and caustic, her commanding posture making her extravagant waterfall of pink curls striking rather than ridiculous. And your only living Victor, Kouji Ibuki, standing tall and stiff next to her and looking washed out with his white hair and white suit next to her bright colours.  
He's only twenty one, but he already looks old. Like the games have stolen years of his life, even though he won them when he was only twelve, a record in the history of Panem.  
But the truth is, he wasn't always like this. Back when you met him, when he came back from his games, he'd been shy and nervous and grim, but there was still a spark in him, something hopeful and a little curious. He'd talked to you eagerly, once you actually got to know each other, had been eager to share his experiences and his passions, had even tried to teach you to paint, although the results had been terrible.  
But then his first games as mentor came and he came back unusually silent, and just when he'd started cheering up again you'd woken up one day and your father was gone without a trace. No tracks. No hints. No mysterious hidden letter, although the Peacekeepers had turned the entire house over, brought dogs, everything. In the end, Rive Shindou was declared dead, you'd been kicked out of Victor's Village and put into the community home, and the next few months were so filled with the fight for _survival_ that you'd had no time to think of anything else.  
And when you finally saw him again after that, at the next Reaping, something in him had died.  
There's been whispers that he doesn't try anymore. You don't think that's true; he's not someone who'd just abandon someone to their death. But sending kids to the arena every year and knowing that at least one of them (and in most cases, both) will die does things to you. And not a single one has made it, since him. It's not an unusual situation, sadly. He's only your third Victor, and the first one, a tall woman that had won the first Quarter Quell and come back to stare down the entire district in silent condemnation, had died the year after your birth. She was a good mentor, according to your father, but your district's children are unprepared. Not rich and trained enough to hold their own as careers, yet just coddled enough that they're not hardened by life or physically strong by necessity like in poorer districts. Kouji himself had been your father's first succesful tribute; his only succesful tribute, in the end.  
So you don't think that he doesn't try. But something in him has given up hope.  
What must it be like, to stay up for days, trying to save them? To fight what you think is an already lost battle anyway?  
But people need someone to blame, and it's easy to forget the year of stability he brought all of you in the face of the tightened security you've all had to deal with since your father's 'death'.  
Rin and Kouji sit while the Mayor walks forward to read the Treaty of Treason into the microphone. She with her legs elegantly crossed, staring above all of you as if you didn't exist, he with his back straight, his long legs neatly pressed together, his hands carefully resting on his thighs like a child told to sit to attention in school. His eyes stay downcast through the entire Treaty, even when Rin starts to fidget and glare at the Mayor in frustration, as if the lightning in her eyes could singe him a little and hurry him up.  
The moment he reaches the last few lines, she stands up, and all but shoves him aside when he's done, barely giving him time to introduce her.  
“Happy Hunger Games,” she calls into the microphone, the sarcasm in her voice making everything more painful because unlike her cheerful predecessor, she knows exactly what this and the festive atmosphere that she's both forcing and mocking at the same time are about. You all applaud. You have to, and she knows it, and she's smirking when she continues: “May the odds be in your favour.”  
You snort. One of the kids close to you shoots you a dark look, as if you could bring bad luck on him by not playing along. Well, you _are_ kind of a bad omen in general, but it's not like something like this will change anything. But you understand. He's scared. You're all scared. You'd be scared if you weren't feeling so dulled.  
You'd try to shrug, or to give a silent look of apology, but you can't muster the energy to do so.  
“Now, I'm _so_ excited to be here,” Rin drawls into her microphone, her mouth still subtly smirking on the giant screen, “so let's find out the names of our lucky winners, shall we?”  
She walks to the glass ball on the girls' side, excrutiatingly slow and casual, and even though it's not you who's in danger right now, you tense anyway. You don't have friends, but there's still plenty of kids you'd rather not see walk off to slaughter. Your classmates. The ones under Shin's care.  
She rummages around the ball with her delicately manicured hand and pulls out a slip of paper, before walking back towards the microphone stand.  
“Emellanna Quin!”  
There's a hushed rumour coursing around the plaza, mostly towards the front. This Emellanna must have friends, because even from your spot you hear someone whimper and burst into tears, and then a tall girl with long brown braids emerges from the seventeen year old area and walks towards the stage, back straight and head held defiantly high.  
She climbs the stairs. The Mayor averts his gaze, while Rin looks casually on. The one who does look at her straight is Kouji, dulled red eyes on her like he's trying to print every detail into his memory.  
She glares at him back and he looks away.  
“Come on, don't keep us waiting,” Rin says fake-sweetly. “Be a good girl and show the crowd your face.”  
As if the cameras hadn't been trained on her face the moment she was called and identified. But she does anyway, because what else is one going to do? You've never seen a tribute try to run away, but chances are you'd just get gunned down and have someone else called. Or restrained and sent into the arena anyway. You're not sure which one is worse, honestly.  
“Now, do we have any volunteers to take Emellanna's place?” Silence. “No one? How sad. Time for the boys, then!”  
She walks towards the other ball, snatching the microphone from its stand. Around you, people tense.  
Your heart's beating painfully hard against your ribcage. But your mind, your emotions feel strangely detached.  
Rin almost boredly sticks her arm into the boys' ball, and barely bothers to mix it before pulling out a slip and looking at it, her lips already parted to call the name on it. But before she can, she pauses, eyes widening in an expression that you've never seen on her before: surprise.  
And then her mouth relaxes into a full smirk, like a predator that's found a new toy.  
“Chrono Shindou!”


	2. Chapter 2

A buzz of voices rises.  
You should be shocked or scared, maybe. But as people around you step away even further, as the entire plaza turns to stare at you, as your face appears on the screen, all you feel is a strange, senseless excitement, the rest of your emotions fallen away.  
Like an empty vessel.  
_Oh. It took them long enough._  
Your skin prickles.  
You step forward, through the parting crowd, and you were about to step out of your enclosure when you catch sight of something on the screen, as it cuts from you back to the stage. Kouji, sitting on the edge of his chair like he's tried to stand up and barely held himself back, his eyes wide and almost haggard.  
The most emotion you've seen on him in years, and you hate that it's been caught on camera, that someone will surely notice, replay it for everyone to see, drag the drama between him and your family before the whole country. The son of his dead, beloved mentor! How tragic!  
It's enough to kick some life back into you. You keep your head held high and walk out of the enclosure and between the ones containing the older children, towards the stage.  
“Well, what do we have here?” Rin says as you climb the stairs. “It's been a while since we've had a Shindou on this stage, hasn't it?”  
You keep your lips tight, your eyes level. But as you reach the top of the stairs, you're faced with Kouji, still on his chair, and suddenly you're seven again, watching his eyes widen in despair and incomprehension when you and Mikuru came to his door, escorted by Peacekeepers, to ask when he'd seen Rive Shindou for the last time. He looks so _young_ , like the child who came out of the arena, buried all these years under something much, much too old.  
And your reflexes take over. You give him a small smile, sad but warm, the same one you'd given the children at the community home this very morning.  
And you turn away. Towards Rin, towards the crowd, towards Emellanna who's, for some reason, glaring at you like she's already trying to kill you.  
In the distance, at one of the entrances of the plaza, there's a commotion as someone pushes their way through.  
“Chrono!”  
She doesn't try to force her way into the part of the plaza that's sealed off. But she still stands, at the edge, winded and tense after all the running she had to do to get there.  
And it hurts.  
You give her another smile, just a fraction of second, but then your eyes are drawn back to Rin as she leans against the podium.  
“Well? Is anyone volunteering?”  
Not a word. Not that you'd expected anything: who'd volunteer to take the place of the scary Victor's kid with his too sharp eyes and his feral demeanour and his sulky silence? Even the adults you've worked with look uncomfortable around you, aside from maybe one or two.  
“That's it, then! Please give our tributes a big round of applause!”  
The applause comes, uncertain but still made loud by numbers. You're made to shake hands with Emellanna, then stand back as the Mayor reads the terms of the Hunger Games. You stare above the crowd, not wanting to give the cameras anything more to work with, refusing to look at Mikuru for now. The things you want to tell her, the long overdue words that have stayed stuck in your chest for years, you need to say them out loud, not through a stolen glance across an entire plaza.  
And finally, after another closing statement from Rin, you're surrounded by Peacekeepers and escorted towards the justice building.

You haven't been in the Justice Building since the weeks after your father died. The last time was a few months after that, when you'd come in not under suspicion but for Mikuru to sign the papers that made her your legal guardian.  
It's almost completely unchanged. The inside is luxurious, but weathered, aging. It feels colder now than it did even then, even in the early summer warmth.  
They lead Emellanna through a door, and you through another, and you wait for a few minutes on the sofa they point you towards for Mikuru to be allowed in.  
When she does, it's in quick but measured steps, the grim determination that drove her through those first months, years of your life together. She gets closer and starts extending her arms, and to your relief you don't have to force yourself to stand up and wrap her in your arms just as she wraps you in hers, clinging tight, like you used to when you were kids.  
How long has it been? You can't remember the last time you really hugged her. You'd been both so wrapped up in the desperate need to be adult, to be self sufficient, to not burden each other with your emotions. But now, it's like something's finally broken.  
In a sick way, it's like you can finally be yourself. Finally be honest. The years of tension, of _uncertainty_ have collapsed, and there's no point now in trying to hold back, in trying to behave, in not talking about it in case it somehow makes you more likely to be reaped. It's done now. The torture of never knowing whether you'll be taken or not is over.  
And if you're completely honest, you're actually relieved.  
She tightens her arms around you and buries her face into your hair, and you smile.  
“Hey,” you say, quietly. “We always kinda knew it would happen.”  
“I know,” she breathes back, rocking you very slightly. You press your face into her shoulder, take strength from her warmth. “… Chrono…”  
“I love you,” you tell her, before you can chicken out, before anyone can interrupt you. “You're the best family I could've wished for.” You refuse to talk in the past tense. You're not dead yet, and you don't want her to send you off thinking you've given up. But… “… thank you. For everything. I'm sorry for the trouble.”  
“What trouble?” she sniffs, and you rub her back gently.  
“Raising me.”  
“Don't be silly. I wouldn't have tried half as hard to even _stay alive_ if you hadn't been there.”  
“I—oh.” You fall silent. That's one aspect of it she's never really talked about. Now you wish you had, before. When there was time.  
She rocks you a little more, to push her point, and you find yourself chuckling a little.  
It feels warm.  
“I love you too, Chrono,” she tells you quietly. “… is there anything I can do for you right now?”  
“This is good. I think I needed it.” You almost laugh again. “… we really are idiots, huh?”  
“Yeah,” she answers, laughing through her tears.  
“… I'm not supposed to feel _better_.”  
“Let them see it. Maybe it'll scare the competition.”  
“That's not always a good thing,” you point out, teasing.  
“I believe in you.”  
And there's nothing you can say to that. It's not even empty words.  
“… you come back to me, you hear me?”  
“… mmm. I'll try my best. But in exchange, you gotta promise me you'll keep going. No matter what. Even if I come back, you gotta stop putting your life on hold. I can handle myself.”  
“Maybe my life is with the family I love, have you thought about that?” she says, ruffling your hair with her nose and making you blush a little. But she keeps going. “Done. So you'd better hold up your end.”  
“… I will.”  
Someone calls from the door. She gives you a last squeeze, and for one second you're terrified. You don't want to let go. You don't want to watch her walk away and not know if you'll never see her again.  
You swallow it down, squeeze back, and let her release you.  
She steps back slightly, but catches your shoulders in her hands, bending to your level and staring right into your eyes.  
“Give them hell, Chrono.”  
You're a little tearful now yourself, but it makes you grin.  
“Can do.”  
She hesitates as the Peacekeeper calls again, then quickly plants a kiss on your cheek, turns, and walks through the door.

A minute later, it's Shin who comes in.  
“They wouldn't let everyone come in,” he states, sitting on the chair opposite you, “so I'm the messenger.”  
“How many even wanted to get in?” you ask.  
“Oh, everyone.”  
“… _everyone?_ ”  
“Yes. They decided just sending me was more fair than picking a few on the spot—from now on we'll vote ahead of time in case something happens.”  
You don't know what to say.  
“I have something for you,” he says, and pulls out a little box.  
You open it. Inside, there's a small bracelet made of knotted colourful threads, a little uneven in places but visibly made with a lot of care.  
You stare at it, not quite daring touch it.  
“I talked about it with Mikuru before she went in. If you don't have anything else on you you want to use… we'd be happy if you accepted it as your token.”  
“… 'We'? You guys made this?”  
He smiles grimly.  
“Orphans don't get reaped often, but just in case, we'd all promised no one would be sent off alone. All the children got together to make a token, in case one of them gets called. We thought it through so it can't be used to strangle or hurt you, and it should pass the check. I've held on to it until now.”  
You cling to the box a little tighter.  
You knew Shin had made life better at the community home, but this? He's actually turned it into a family. You hadn't quite realised how deep the change went.  
“… you sure?”  
“Very sure. We had time to vote on _that_ before I went in at least.” He pushes your hands and the box closer to your chest. “As far as we're concerned, you're one of us.”  
“… thanks.” You take the bracelet out of the box, slide it open, thread your hand through it, and tighten it again around your wrist. “… I'm not gonna curse myself by asking you to take care of Mikuru, but… I trust you, okay?”  
“You don't even need to ask.”  
You smile, and find it harder and harder to hold back your tears.  
“… do you want me to go?” he asks, quietly.  
“And cry in front of the next person?” you chuckle, a little bitter. Well, if there even _is_ a next person. “I'll be fine, just… give me a minute.”  
He nods. You close your eyes, let the tears already gathered at their corners spill out and spend themselves, and wipe them away, getting back control. When you open your eyes again, he's handing you a handkerchief.  
“… thanks,” you sigh, wiping at your eyes and cheeks until they're dry. You'd need to blow your nose, too, honestly, but it feels rude. You can do that on the train, use up Capitol supplies instead.  
Some rebellion.  
“For what it's worth, I fully believe you can win. And so does Mikuru.”  
If they let you. But there's no point in saying any of that, so you smile, as best as you can.  
“Thanks.”

To your surprise, there is a next person. Shin's barely been out for a minute when someone else walks in, one of your teachers. She doesn't stay long, and the way she says she's proud to have known you makes you depressed more than anything else, but you're surprised she even thought of you, so it's not all negative. And then the Head of Maintenance of the dam you've worked on, a short and thick man with a no nonsense attitude, that you always appreciated the most on the grounds of him treating you like enough of an adult to be doing the job you were doing. But he'd also watched over you in his own way, giving you advice and teaching you how to fish and explaining how everything worked in a way that made more sense than school.  
“Remember,” he says, “the kids from Four swim better than you, but most of the others can't at all. Rivers aren't just for drinking water; you can use them if someone's on your tail.”  
“… you're awfully knowledgeable about the games,” you say, curious rather than condemning.  
He smirks.  
“My older sister was a tribute. Bet you didn't know that.”  
“… I didn't.”  
You feel a little guilty, but he doesn't look mad.  
“That's why you gotta talk to people, kid. You learn stuff.”  
“… I'll keep that in mind.”  
“But don't fret it. It was before you were born. Before your father's time, even. You just remember what I told you, okay?”  
You nod.  
“May the odds be in your favour, Chrono,” he tells you as he stands.  
You try to smile.  
“There's a first to everything, right?”  
He shakes his head, but he's smiling slightly, and you don't want to see the pain in his eyes so you stare blankly in his direction until he's gone, letting your vision blur a little.  
And then it's over. You wait, but there's no one else coming to see you. No classmates, no neighbours.  
You didn't expect anything, but it still feels lonely, waiting there. You wish they'd let Mikuru stay longer.  
You pull your knees up and hug them, resting your face in them, until they come to escort you to the car headed for the station.

As a child, you used to go to the train station every year, once to see your father off and once to welcome him back. When you were seven, you'd gone twice more, for Kouji's victory tour. And then you'd stopped.  
In eight years, the building hasn't changed. There's more security than usual, even for a reaping day; they've definitely increased it since. But even though the crowd and cameras feel dizzying from this side, the rest feels strangely familiar.  
You know the protocol. Kouji and Rin have already gone in while you were saying your goodbyes. You and Emellanna get to stand on the platform for a few minutes while the Capitol's cameras get some good shots of you. And then you're led into the train, the door closes behind you, and Emellanna gives a long, heavy sigh as the train starts rolling.  
“That was surprisingly uneventful,” Rin says as she walks towards the both of you, perfectly balanced on her uncomfortably high heels. “I'd have thought you'd have gotten more of a reaction from the crowd,” she adds, pointing at you.  
“It's rude to point,” Emellanna tells her.  
“Whatever. Let me show you your rooms. You can do whatever you want until dinner—except jump out of the window, we don't have time for that kind of delay. But this train's designed to avoid that kind of problem anyway,” she continues, turning on her heel, flipping her hair back behind her shoulder, and taking off down the length of the train.  
_How nice of you to think of our safety_ , you want to grumble, but you have a feeling Emellanna won't laugh along.  
Considering how bad you are at people even on a good day, the next almost-week is going to be a lot of fun.  
She shows Emellanna her room first, then brings you to yours. Even compared to your old house, it's incredibly luxurious. The bed is large enough for two and soft—too soft, almost. There's a drawers full of clothes—you look through several for something your size before sighing and settling on a shirt a little too large. Anything that fit your height was too tight at the shoulders.  
You almost just keep the clothes you have on, but decide against it; if something happens to you, you want them still mostly clean to be given back to Mikuru, not covered in sweat and potential food stains.  
You get into the shower and let almost painfully hot water run of your body. Not having to ration it is liberating, and you want to make the most of what the Capitol oh so generously gives you. If they want to spend fortunes on their games, let them. You turn the heat up a little more and let out a purring groan as it unwinds your muscles, finally allowing your neck and upper back to relax. You hadn't even noticed how tense you still were.  
You stay in until the steam starts making you dizzy, then wash yourself quickly and step out. You're halfway through putting your shirt back on when Rin barges in without knocking.  
“Dinnertime!” she calls, fakely cheerful.  
She's still eyeing you while you button the shirt up, and you'd have glared at her if you thought it would have done anything. Instead you grit your teeth, straighten the shirt, and slip your bracelet back on, pulling it tight.  
“Is that your token? How cute.”  
You walk past her without answering.

Emellanna, you find out, hasn't waited for either of you to start eating. She's already got a full plate, and is happily munching at some fried potatoes; it's the first time you see anything resembling a smile on her face. Not that you can blame her.  
“Now where did Kouji run off to?” Rin sighs, directing you towards your chair with a haughty, detached wave of her hand.  
“He said he wasn't feeling well,” Emellanna answers between two bites.  
“Not feeling well my ass,” she hisses, surprising the both of you enough that you stop in your tracks and Emellanna looks away from her plate. That's not the kind of wording you'd expected from your callous but impecable escort. “He's probably hiding somewhere. Whatever, he'll get hungry eventually.”  
You're not so sure about that. The Kouji you remember never ate much. But you don't say anything: being hunted down through a Capitol train by an angry Rin Hashima is something you wouldn't wish even on your worst enemies.  
Honestly, you're not that hungry either. But you're going to need _strength_ in the arena; better get started on making reserves now. You don't have the plant knowledge some kids will have, and you're not exactly a hunter; for you, the hunger games could very well turn out to be literal.  
So you sit down and dump some potatoes in your plate too, and add two thick slices of roast beef.  
There's whole small birds, too, stuffed with something sweet; you're not sure you can take a whole one, but you still want to try it.  
“… want half?” you offer Emellanna, nudging at it with your knife. Hopefully that'll work as a peace offering.  
She narrows her eyes, then sighs.  
“Sure.”  
You cut the bird in two and push half into her plate, before pouring sauce over both servings. The stuffing looks like a mix of nuts and fruits and spices you haven't smelled in years. The things you could _do_ if you had some of those at home; Mikuru always claims you have a talent for making something good out of any combination of ingredients, but you often find yourself limited. Spices would give you a way to bring some real colour to all your dishes, but they're expensive, more than you've ever felt comfortable spending, and you never got to learn how to use them while you had them readily available. You hadn't thought, at age seven, that you'd have to run a household within the year.  
“Huh, what's that?” she asks, poking at something dark in the stuffing with her fork.  
“Prunes, I think… yeah,” you confirm, picking a small piece from yours and tasting it.  
She gives you a strange look, but then looks back to her plate and goes back to eating. You sigh and add a few spoonfuls of vegetables to your plate, and get to work.

You're tentatively spreading some kind of soft cheese on bread when Rin calls out to you.  
“Keep some room for dessert.”  
“… I'm not too big on sweets.”  
“Huh. Weirdo.” She shrugs, then lies back on her chair. “Well _we_ will be enjoying our cake like civilised people. Have fun.”  
You eat your bread slowly, decide you can't risk another bite, and stand up.  
“I'm gonna take a walk. Enjoy the cake.”  
“Oh I will. Maybe you should while you can.”  
You roll your eyes, and reach for the bread bowl again to pluck a tiny loaf of bread with nuts on top of it (and hopefully inside), making a show of spiting her. She ignores you.  
Just as planned.  
You make your way out of the dining room just as a Capitol attendant walks in with a tray of desserts. There's actually fruits dipped in chocolate that almost make you regret your decision, but you decide against it. You'd risk making yourself sick, and besides, you have somewhere to be.  
You look around the train a bit before asking another attendant you come across where Kouji's room is. You knock on the door. Nothing. Nothing when you call out his name either, although you're sure he'd have recognised your voice.  
So. If you were Kouji, where would you go?  
The part of the train that's reserved for the staff is off limits to you, but you doubt he'd find shelter there: too many people, too much noise. Not his room where people will look for him first, and not somewhere people would pass by by accident.  
You take off towards the very end of the train.

You find him at the very end, in a compartment made almost entirely of a padded bench that circles the room, letting one sit next to the large windows that form most of the walls. Like some kind of viewing platform, except closed in all directions.  
He's sitting in the corner between the one wall that's not glass—the one leading back to the rest of the train—and one of the windows, out of the way of the door. His back is straight but his head slightly leaned against the glass, and he doesn't jump when you quietly walk in. He's probably heard you come closer.  
“… hey.”  
He doesn't answer. You take in a slow, deep breath, and go sit next to him, on the window side.  
He looks at you, finally. So much about his face seems tired, too old for his age, but his eyes are piercing, their dark red heavy. There's always been something a little too intense about them, about him, and it's probably what caused people to turn him into something else in their head or avoid him altogether, the same way your hair and eyes and facial expressions have made people scared of you.  
In the Capitol they called him an angel, and people vied for the privilege of showing him off at their side, but you've only really seen him with one person in what televised appearances he's had while he was there, a woman who looked barely middle aged but might have been any age at all, considering what the Capitol could do to one's face. But at home in District five, _angelic_ turned to _unnatural_. Even though being a Victor should have made him popular, when you were still living next to him, he didn't have any friends.  
You give him a small smile.  
“Long time no see, huh?”  
He blinks, as if surprised by the sound of your voice. It broke a couple of years ago, earlier than you expected, and by now you'd forgotten that you didn't always sound like this. Rough and slightly on the deep side.  
“… you've changed,” he finally says, quietly.  
You chuckle.  
“You got taller.”  
“… you haven't.”  
“Hey!” You're only mock offended, but being able to talk at all makes you feel relieved. “I know I'm short but I'm not _that_ short. I've put on a few centimetres in eight years.”  
He doesn't answer. You sigh and get your bread loaf out of your pocket, showing it off before tossing it in his direction.  
“I got you some dinner.” (He catches it perfectly. His reflexes haven't dimmed in those years) “Rin wants to starve you into the open, this is my way of disobeying her.”  
“Don't say that to her face,” he says. “She might take interest in you.”  
You raise an eyebrow.  
“Oh?”  
“She likes watching people struggle. If you don't fight back, she gets bored.”  
_Oh_.  
“So _that_ 's why she took this job?”  
He nods.  
“… wow. Talk about a piece of work.”  
“I've seen worse.”  
You almost wince. That's both something that worries you and something you'd rather not remind him of.  
“… thank you,” he says, quietly.  
“… you're usually louder than this,” you point out, just as quiet. Emotionally dulled, yes, but normally you could almost believe the ice prince persona he's started to build. Tall and cold and clear, his voice trained to reach above crowds. But right now he just feels small.  
He stays silent.  
“Kouji—”  
“I'm sorry.”  
“… it's not your fault.”  
He looks away. You sigh, stretch a little.  
“Besides, the games haven't even started. Don't write me off just yet.”  
His eyes jump back to you, sharp.  
“Do you actually think you can win?”  
“What, you don't? Have some faith.”  
He shakes his head lightly.  
“Faith is a liability. They've taught me _that_. You'll see—…”  
He trails off, looking away again, looking guilty. You can see the gears in his head grinding, and you hate it.  
_No, you won't see, because you'll never get there_. He really _has_ lost faith.  
“… well _I_ 'm not writing myself off yet, thanks. I've got people to take care of and I plan on getting back to them.”  
You stand to release some steam. You hadn't planned on getting angry with him; it's so _pointless_ and focusing on the wrong target, but…  
Maybe it just hurts that he doesn't believe in you more.  
_What an idiot. Here I am, always reminding myself they might just kill me on purpose, and I get mad at him for the same thing._  
But you miss the old Kouji. The Kouji who smiled, even if those smiles were tiny and shy. The Kouji who'd talk forever about his passion that he finally had time to indulge. The Kouji who still had hope.  
You know none of this is his fault, that he's not the one to blame. But in a way, you'd been glad for the chance to see an old friend again, especially if there was a chance it'd be the last time. And now it feels like you've already lost him too. Like another precious thing's slipping out of your grasp.  
Rage rises in you again, the same burning force that you've carefully smothered all these years and only tapped into to keep yourself going at the worst times. You want—you want to prove him wrong. But most of all, you want to challenge those who made him give up that hope. To challenge their version of the world, just by your existence.  
You're about to sit back down and try to just _talk_ when you hear the telltale sound of heels clicking in the corridor.  
“So that's where you were hiding,” Rin says, pushing the door open a minute later. “It's time for the mice to leave their hidey holes. We have some reapings to view.”  
_She's_ definitely _worse in person_ , you think, repressing the urge to groan. Next to you, Kouji stands silently, and you've missed your chance.  
Great.  
“Well?” she asks. “Don't you want to take a look at your competition?”  
“I'm coming, I'm coming.”

She leads the two of you back to the area of the train that housed the dining room, but points you into another compartment, where comfortable seats and a television—much larger and shinier than the one you have at home, or even the one you had as a kid—await. Emellanna's already waiting, munching on tiny pieces of something white and fluffy. Meringue, your brain supplies. Your father used to tell you about it, when he told stories of all the foods they served in the Capitol.  
You sit through maybe two hours of reaping reruns, helpfully recorded for your enjoyment. You're tempted to just space out, but your brain starts running on its own, focusing from no will of your own. Already trying to keep you alive. Without even trying to, you pick up little details about the tributes. A girl with short-cut hair and strong arms from district one, serious rather than grinning as she volunteers. The one from three, crying but angry as she walked up the stairs in complete silence, glaring at the crowd as if condemning them. Two volunteers from four who look at each other in silent understanding. A boy from ten who was shaking enough on the stage that a peacekeeper stepped in to hold him up. A little girl from twelve, her dark curls sticking out of the ponytail she'd attempted to gather them in, hands fisted in her dress until they had her shake hands with her co-tribute.  
And then Rin plays your own reaping back. Emellanna being called. Another girl next to her bursting into tears and being held back by her friends as she walks forward. And then you, and the small no man's land that instantly formed around you when people heard your name.  
As expected, they caught Kouji's reaction. Great. You're gonna have to think of something to say about that for the interview, probably.  
You step on the stage, and the camera catches your smile. You'd meant it to be reassuring, but seen from the outside, it looks almost creepy. Who smiles when they're called to the hunger games? Now people are gonna throw you in with the Careers. As if there weren't enough rumours of _that_ already.  
You're not deaf. You _hear_ the whispers at school.  
“How charming,” Rin mocks. Thankfully, you don't care enough about _her_ opinion to bristle.  
“Do you have any input?” Kouji asks, and for a second you think he's being sarcastic, until you remember that Kouji and Sarcasm mix about as well as oil and water. No, it's a genuine question, and _that_ surprises you. Maybe they get along better than you thought.  
“I wouldn't bet any of your sorry asses on it, but aside from you two, I'd say watch out for that boy from seven. The girl from six, too. They're hiding something.”  
“What, that kid?” Emellanna asks. “He looks younger than this guy,” she adds, pointing at you with her thumb.  
“Who's the professional here? Believe me or not. It's not my life that's on the line, Darling.”  
Emellanna glowers, but Kouji cuts her off before she can lash out.  
“Age doesn't mean everything.”  
“Yes, you'd know all about that, wouldn't you?” Rin says, leaning back in her seat. “Personally I'd say we actually stand a decent chance this year. You're not as boring as usual.” She smirks. “Keep me entertained and maybe I'll help you even more.”  
“I thought you were a professional,” you say.  
“My job's to smile, read some papers, and escort you to the Capitol, preferably after teaching you some manners. The rest is a bonus that I'm graciously giving you.”  
Part of you hates her. The other is honestly amazed at her bluntness.  
“But I'll tell you what,” she says in a bored tone that for her passes for cheerful, or even excited. “Show me you have what it takes to crush our competition, and I'll use every trick I have to make it happen.”  
And you're the one who's 'charming'. Still, if what she says is true, you could get an ally, if an unreliable and unsettling one.  
“I'm out of here,” Emellanna hisses out, standing and heading out of the door.  
“Have fun,” Rin calls out. “Try to be up on time for breakfast.”  
“… did you actually need me for anything else?” you sigh.  
“Oh, not really. Why, should I let you continue your tender reunion?”  
“That won't be necessary,” Kouji says, and this time it's him who leaves, without another word.  
You're left alone with Rin Hashima, and suddenly you almost wish you were already in the arena.  
“… so,” you make yourself say. “What do you mean by 'crushing our competition'? What do I have to do?”  
She sighs, and reaches into a pocket you didn't even know she had for a small bag of sweets, popping one into her mouth.  
“You know the new Master of Ceremonies.”  
“That Shinonome guy?”  
“Him. He made fun of me last year. Implied this district kept losing because I wasn't up to the task. And then he had the gall to _offer me money_. To 'comfort' me. As if I _needed_ money.”  
How hard life as a Capitol citizen must be.  
“So I told him to keep his money, but he said he'd make it into a bet. Ten times more if we win.”  
“So you want us to win so you can win your bet?”  
“I don't care which of you it is, honestly. And I'm not going to be seen busting my ass for you two if you're going to fail pathetically. So show me you're worth the trouble, and we can rub that win in his face. And the face of every other escort, for that matter.”  
“… I'll keep that in mind,” you sigh, because sighing is better than everything else you could have done in that moment.

When she's gone, you make a last quick trip to the dining room, only to find it empty. An attendant comes right as you were going to go back out, and is so insistent on asking what you wanted that you finally tell him, and when you finally go back to your room you have a small pie stuffed with meat on a little plate.  
Rather than going back to your room, you stop outside Emellanna's.  
You knock. No reply.  
“It's Chrono.”  
Still nothing. You sigh.  
Well, maybe she _is_ asleep. But just in case she isn't…  
“You should talk to Rin. She has something to say that might be useful.”  
Still no reply. You lean your head against the door for a second to _breathe_ , then head back to your room.

You lie in your bed, and you want to break down, and you don't.  
It feels strange, the comforter too fluffy and light, the sheets too soft. Both suffocating and inexistent.  
But most of all, it's your tears that are inexistent. Like you left them behind in district 5, with Mikuru, with Shin, with the kids, with the old Kouji.  
Like you left them behind with the seven year old boy who woke up to an empty house.  
Everything feels both completely surreal and completely normal. You reach down into yourself, try to feel, but nothing comes.  
_Watch as I break down in the arena instead…_  
You let your face fall against the sheets, and try to sleep. Try to curl up, like when you were really small, when your mother would pet you to sleep.  
You don't even remember her, save for a few sensations. Photographs. Your mother, who left you your hair and your height and little else. Mikuru once told you that you inherited her way with people. You've never known what to make of that; from what you heard about her from others, she was kind and well-liked. A world away from your antisocial bluntness. But you wish it was true. Sometimes, you wish people remembered you as Tokimi Shindou's Son, not Rive's. But now that you're headed into the arena too, that little patch of warmth in your memories feels even further than before.  
What would she think, now, seeing you leave for the games? What would she think of you, once she sees you fighting for your life, killing. Would she still look at you the same way afterwards? Or would she gradually see you as a monster, like Kouji's parents had?  
Maybe it'd be okay. She married a Victor, after all. She was used to people with blood on their hands.  
And so is Mikuru. It's to that thought that you cling as you finally start drifting to sleep. So is Mikuru. When you go back, if you win, you know deep inside you that she might see you differently, but she won't see you as anything _less_. That if you need to hide in her arms again, she'll let you.  
That to her, at least, you'll always be the child who used to make up his own tales of dragons and knights and flower princesses, even if you had to leave him behind and let him die when you were seven.  
You fall asleep to the sound of the tracks underneath the train, and think of Mikuru holding your hands.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you believe the original plan was "write two short-ish chapters to set the scene before I can publish what I've written of the games"?  
> But no. My freaking brain has to rewrite the entire novel.

You wake up to someone banging on your door.  
“If you don't want me to drag you out without your clothes, you'd better hurry up,” Rin calls through the door.  
“… I'm up,” you manage to groan. Great, your last night before you're locked up in the Capitol and then the arena, and they won't even let you sleep in.  
You force yourself out of bed before you can start waking up enough to _think_ about anything too hard, take a quick shower, hot, then cold, dry yourself off and throw on the clothes from last night.  
When you reach the dining compartment, the smell of fresh coffee reaches your nose.  
“Yesss…”  
You make a beeline for the pot, and pour yourself a mug before even looking at what food is available.  
Just from the smell, it's delicious, and the first taste confirms it. Stronger than your usual, its flavour more complex, the subtle green notes caressing your palate without the bitterness drowning everything out.   
If this is what Capitol people get to drink, no wonder they look so peppy all the time.  
“How do you people drink that thing?” Emellanna sighs.  
She's halfway through a gigantic plate of eggs, bacon and bread with jam on it, and keeping a protective eye on a mug of what looks like hot chocolate. But despite the sigh, she's _talking_ at least. An improvement.  
On the other side of the table, Kouji is, unsurprisingly, nursing a coffee of his own.  
“Keeps me awake,” you mumble, taking another short sip and feeling your senses returning. Being woken up instead of waking up on your own really doesn't treat you well. You blink, stretch a little, and finally feel a little more alive. “You could try with some sugar or chocolate in it, it won't be as bitter. Or milk, too.”  
“I'll pass.”  
Rin walks in at that moment and drops into a chair, immediately grabbing a cinnamon roll.  
“Oh, finally. Sleeping Beauty's here. We're about to arrive.”  
Almost on cue, the train enters a tunnel, plunging the room in darkness for about a second, before the lights come on automatically.  
You shiver. This is it. The next time you'll see the sun, you'll be in the Capitol. And then who knows.  
 _Breathe_.  
Rather than show the others how nervous you are, you make yourself sit down and start putting food on your plate.   
“Can we finish breakfast at least before we go out?”  
“Oh, sure. You'll need it.”  
“Need it?” Emellanna says suspiciously.  
“Remake center's tiring,” you explain on reflex, before realising that maybe you should have let Kouji and Rin speak.  
Thankfully, Kouji nods.  
“It can take hours. Eat what you can.”  
 _You're one to talk_. He's barely nibbling at a cake, aside from the coffee. But at least he's eating something.  
Emellanna had been squinting at you, but her eyes widen at his words.  
“Hours? What do they even _do_? How does it take hours? They just clean you up and stuff, right?”  
“Hair removal, several baths in different products, manicure, pedicure, scrubbing on every part of your skin, several masks and treatment for your face, eyebrow shaping, and you have long hair so it'll take even longer.”  
She stares at him in horror. Rin ignores the both of them and takes a second roll.  
You opt to follow her example and make eating your priority. No amount of complaining is going to change the whole makeover thing, after all, and it really is the least of your problems considering, well, everything else. You'll just have to tune it out.  
You're finishing your eggs when the light hits the windows again, and for a moment, you're frozen.  
This is it. You're in the Capitol.  
Somehow, the fact that all this is ineluctable hadn't fully hit you until now.  
 _Get a grip_ , you tell yourself as a shiver.  
You breathe, slowly. Try to go back to your food. And finally give in and get up to go look out of the window, at the sight that both your father and Kouji had to see so many times.  
It's gorgeous. It hurts to admit it, but the Capitol is as beautiful as it is scary, the brilliant towers coming to life despite their intimidating size. Everywhere, people moving, on foot and in cars, a city that never quite stops, never quite sleeps. It's so early in the morning, and yet there are already so many people out.  
A middle aged man looks up, right at you, and the recognition and excitement on his face makes you feel sick enough that you pull back from the window, and go back to sit down.  
You're tired of everyone knowing who you are. But it'll get even worse from now on. Especially if you survive.  
You sigh and force yourself to go back to breakfast.

Less than an hour later, you're in the hands of your prep team. You only got to see your stylist for a few moments before he told them he was 'leaving you in their capable hands' and let them drag you towards their room of the remake center.  
And you have to admit, no matter how much you thought you knew, you weren't prepared for how exhausting this would be.  
It's not just the moving around. It's the tension of being stripped naked and watched, and having to hold yourself back from curling in on yourself to shield your body at least a little. It's the constant touches, the contact without warning, being _made_ to move, and having to make yourself go along without seeming to resist. It's the first bath you've already been put into, just lukewarm enough to be uncomfortable and too thick to be water.  
But most of all, it's how _loud_ they are.  
“Karl! Get to work on those nails! Show him the full power of our team!”  
“Yes Sir!”  
And Karl—a guy about your height who doesn't look much older—grabs your hand and starts polishing your nails. Not just the edges, either, but the top too, rubbing and pressing at the nail itself and the skin around it with a strange electric tool until your fingers feel a little numb with all the buzzing.  
“Eyes closed!”  
You barely have time to close your eyes before someone presses slices of—is that cucumber?—on them.  
“You'll feel all refreshed soon…” the third (and honestly least exhausting) member, a tall young man with strong hands, tells you gently.  
You sigh and try your hardest to stop paying attention to what's being done to your body.

To your surprise, they don't mess with your hair. It's washed and dried and rubbed with some kind of cream that magically disappears into it once they massage it, but upon witnessing with nothing short of awestruck fascination that the swirl does in fact coil itself right back into shape as soon as your hair is dry, with no help from any styling products, they leave it alone entirely.  
It's like they've acquired a kind of reverence for your hair, and you wish they'd save even a tenth of that respect and consideration for the person attached to it.  
After a last checkup and a cream spread on your lips “so you won't mess them right up again before this evening,” you're finally pushed back into the (almost literal) arms of your stylist.  
You stumble from the shove Tsuneto (the loudest) gave you, and the stylist, who'd apparently been waiting for you behind the door, catches your shoulders.  
You have to repress the urge to shove him back. You don't want yet another person touching your body in this state, and the stumbling made you even more defensive. But he smiles when you look up, pleased at the flames in your eyes that you didn't get to hide on time.  
“Good. Good, Amigo! That's what I want to see.”  
To his credit, he helps you straighten and lets go immediately, stepping back and giving you time to get your bearings before looking at you properly. You resent him a little less.  
Now that you're not being herded around at high speed, you actually get time to look at him, as much as he looks at you. And the first thing you notice is that he's young. Unexpectedly young, when so many Games stylists make it their career and sit on the spot for most of their lives.   
You remember the previous stylist for the boys, a brilliant but predatory man who was constantly covered in gold jewelry. You'll take your chances with this one. Not that you have much of a choice.  
He circles back to your front, long white hair falling off his shoulder when he straightens. The only gold about _him_ is his eyes, strangely sharp despite his outward cheerfulness.  
“Well, someone's been working out,” he says. “That's good, it makes both our jobs easier.”  
“I just _work_ ,” you grumble. “… what do you mean, 'both our jobs'?”  
“ _Your_ job, Amigo, is to make it out of that arena. And mine is to give you the best chance you can get.”  
Well. A stylist who actually cares whether you survive, rather than just how much people will gossip about his outfits. It might still be for the sake of his own glory, but at least he can make a decent ally.  
“Now,” he says, gesturing with his hands, “my teacher and I have been brainstorming already—we want to be on the same page, see, matching costumes are always better, but we also want something that serves each of you best—so we watched your reaping closely—you made a strong impression already, by the way. But more on that later. How about we discuss all this over lunch, and I'll get to work after that once I get their feedback.”  
He beams.  
“… am I supposed to just have lunch naked?” you ask, dreading that in his cheerfulness he'll claim that it doesn't bother _him_ and ignore whether it bothers you.  
“Oh! I almost forgot. Sorry about that.” He walks to the side of the room where one of the walls houses a dark glass panel, fiddles with the touch screen next to it for a few moments, and a few moments later the glass panel slides to the side to reveal what honestly looks like a fancy hospital gown. “Here, this should be your size.”  
Surprisingly enough, it is. At least he's not a stylist for nothing.

Lunch is a delight. Despite the rather heavy breakfast, your lack of sleep and the exhaustion of dealing with the prep team have made you exhausted, and the food is not just amazing but _new_ , large chunks of pink-ish flesh that taste somewhat like fish but with a rounder, stronger flavour, contrasted with a delicate sauce and served with a dome of rice in three different colours and a side of still-crunchy vegetables. It's to die for, and for a moment you let your curiosity take over instead of pressing on about the outfits.  
“What's that?”  
“Shrimp. You don't get seafood in five, I suppose…”  
You shake your head.  
“There's fish and stuff in the river and reservoir, but sea fish'd go bad before it reached us.”  
Not that it ever goes bad when it has to reach the Capitol, but of course supply trains are always faster and better refrigerated when they're headed _to_ the Capitol. It's not unusual for trains to the districts to turn off their refrigerating units for part of the trip to save power, and not everyone can afford things like meat anyway. Grain, at least, tends to get there intact.  
“Good point. I should tell them to make you try sushi at least once while you're here, then.”  
'While you're here'. As if you were merely visiting the Capitol, instead of headed for slaughter. Maybe he's trying to keep you from panicking by wording it like that, but all it does is make you bristle a little.  
But you can't afford to antagonise him.  
“That's raw fish, right?”   
You're not sure you _trust_ raw fish.  
“Don't look so suspicious, Amigo. I promise it's safe—as long as you don't try the fugu.”  
“Fugu?”  
“It's a kind of fish—they say it's the tastiest, but if you cut it wrong you release a deadly poison. A bite can be enough to kill you.”  
Your eyes widen.  
“And people still go for it?”  
“Bored, comfortable people love thrills. As you know,” he says with a hint of sharpness that makes you pause. But before you can make sure, he's back to his innocent cheerfulness. “Anyway! As I was about to tell you before we ordered lunch, I also did some research on you.”  
“You what?”  
“I want to make those outfits the best they can be. So I needed to get a sense of who you are. And I can't wait for the interview to know that, can I?”  
“You could've just _asked me_ ,” you grumble.  
“I needed time to plan ahead. And I have a feeling that if I asked, you wouldn't actually be able to tell me your own best qualities. Am I wrong?”  
You wince. He's right.  
He beams.  
“So… I got some echoes on your reputation, but looking at the facts tells a different story. I take it the rumours that you trained to come here are false?”  
“Of course.”  
“And you really don't seem violent to me. They wouldn't let you take care of children otherwise.”  
You look away. Somehow, that part feels private, more than your relationship with Mikuru, even. Maybe because your family's always had its intimacy exposed more than any of you would have liked. But the warm, anchoring feeling you get from helping with the kids… that's something that's yours and yours alone.  
You realise, too late, that you're fidgeting with your bracelet. You try to let it go, but he's already seen, of course.  
“… do you mind if I get a little personal, Amigo?”  
“… go ahead. Not like I can stop you anyway.”  
“You see, I grew up in one of those homes.”  
You look back up at him, surprised. He smiles, softer than before.  
“Of course,” he continues, “the community homes in the Capitol are much better off than the ones in the districts. We're taken care of properly, fed properly, and given opportunities as we grow up so we can find our place in society. I was scouted for my talent early, even though I was an orphan. So I know I was very lucky compared to you.”  
You stay silent. You don't know what to say, what to feel, especially in the face of feelings that aren't so clueless after all.  
“But I know about that loneliness at least a little. And I know that for children who have no one, belongings and mementos mean everything. If they gave you one… it must mean that you're very important to them.”  
“… it was meant for them,” you finally admit. “In case one of them got reaped. Since they don't have a family to give them something.”  
“If someone had selflessly come to take care of me, for free, regularly, just because they wanted to, I'd have considered them family too.” He reaches for your wrist, lightly brushes the little colourful bracelet that looks so flimsy in the middle of all this glitter, metal and grandeur. “I think that's an aspect of your personality we need to play up.”  
“Why? Does it make a difference?”  
“It does. You see, Amigo, there's _plenty_ of tributes whose defining feature is being strong and brutal and gruff. Especially among the boys. But it's not often that you find a warrior.”  
“… so that's your approach? Warriors?”  
He beams.  
“You're district five. The district that brings light to Panem. I say it's time to make you shine.”

“I thought you said warrior, not prince,” you point out when Jaime tries to balance a crown on your head, several hours later.  
Somehow, he's made a design that enhances the shape of your hair rather than trying to hide or ignore it, and that's maybe his most impressive feat so far.  
The outfit itself is nothing to spit on, though. The crisp uniforms that he and his mentor chose to accentuate the courage and challenge Emellanna and you showed when you were reaped are elegant, echoes of an age long past. There's epaulettes on both of you, and a small, decorative chest piece, and while her jacket turns into something almost like a train after her waist, you have a small cape attached to your shoulders, covering them and your back. And both of them blindingly white, with accents of red and gold.  
And you don't use the word 'blindingly' lightly. The fabric, Jaime's mentor told you after they inspected the both of you to make sure everything was perfect, was meant to capture any light that comes its way and radiate it back. Even in the twilight, even in the darkness, it will shine or glow, turning you into a source of light. And in the spotlights, you'll be like diamonds, or the sun reflecting on a blade.  
You'd been scared, at first, that all this white and light was going to drown out your face. But the makeup, you have to admit, manages to bring out your features even in the brightest light. The sharp, bright eyes. The shape of your jaw. Emellanna's eyebrows, not thinned into a weak line but subtly reshaped into something determined and striking.  
Honestly, you look _incredible_ , and if it wasn't for the games, you'd be flustered at the idea of being seen in it.  
But these are the Hunger Games. And what Jaime has given you is a weapon.  
He winks at you, hopping down from the cart.  
“A warrior prince who protects his people! I think that fits, Amigo, don't you?”  
You feel a little hot, and fidget with your bracelet. Despite the claims from your prep team that it'd ruin the outfit, Jaime had declared it should stay.  
“… oh yeah,” you ask, to change the subject, as his mentor talks to Emellanna in a low voice. “What does that mean, by the way?”  
“Hm?”  
“The Amigo thing.”  
He smiles.  
“These days, not much. It's a word from one of the languages that used to coexist here before we became Panem. It means… friend.” He winks. “Try to humour me for the next few days, at least?”  
“… I can do that.”  
Finally, they step away from you, and you're left waiting for the parade to start. You stand, a little awkwardly, next to Emellanna, and rather than let the silence grow more tense, you look at the other tributes in front of you. Far at the front, the district one tributes are covered in jewels, a classic look. The district two ones seem to have been disguised as statues, their skin and draped outfits gray and cold. District three has a kind of screen turned fabric wrapped around them that displays pictures of previous arenas.  
Suddenly, you don't feel so confident about your outfit. It looks magnificent, but the competition this year is harsh, especially the richer districts that stylists fight to get.  
The ones that draw your eyes the most, though, are the two just in front of you. Their skin is covered in some kind of shimmery makeup that catches the light and shines like a rainbow of colours, and the effect melts almost seamlessly with their actual outfit, a tight-fitting sleeve of blue and green scales that accentuate their body from the chest down to their ankles and ends in a train of scale fabric and translucent veils that you can already picture flowing behind them like wavelets. It's stunning and well-thought, and against its blues and greens, the girl tribute's hair looks all the brighter, her red almost as intense as yours.  
The signal comes. The district three stylists, that were still tinkering with the screens, step back, as the district one tributes start moving. Somewhere to the side, movement catches your eye, and you turn to see Jaime waving at you.  
“Chins up!” he calls, gesturing with his thumb too. “Both of you! You're royalty! Show them!”  
You nod, and shoot Emellanna a look. She nods, almost to your surprise, and turns towards the front, chin high, eyes blazing.  
You close your eyes for a second, and try to forget that you're a tribute. Forget the fear, forget the sadness, forget how tired you are of everything. Instead, you think of home, of the people you want to protect. Of Mikuru, alone in her small house, or maybe with Shin for support. Of the kids who see you as one of them. Of Kouji, that you don't want to leave alone again. Emellanna, even, who might be your opponent but is still from _home_ , and on whom your shared reputation tonight will have an effect.  
You reach deep inside yourself, and look for the sleeping emotions that you've kept as embers all these years. And find that you can touch them, gather some of their strength.  
You want to protect them. And no one else will do it for you. You want to _win_.   
You open your eyes, and raise your head, and look above the crowd, and the white horses start moving.

You ride into the street, and the noise, the crowd, is already deafening. You'd thought the mass of people squeezing together for reaping day was bad; this is so much worse. Whether it's how _excited_ they are instead of nervous and grim, or the clashing colours of skin, hair and fabric, or just the _noise_ , there's something dizzying about Capitol crowds, and you've only just started. It's a good thing you already anchored yourself to the feeling you want to ride, because if you hadn't, it might have broken your focus entirely.  
Thankfully, looking regal and above it all works _perfectly well_ to ignore the crowd. So you do just that, looking above their heads with your eyes straight and your shoulders back, and breathe slow and deep, burning rage and protectiveness and determination like fuel. And before you know it, the twilight turns to almost darkness, and the true genius of Jaime's outfit starts showing.  
It's like you've become light itself. You glow, not tackily like an electric lamp but with the soft light of a morning sky, like starlight in the darkness.   
You have to resist the urge to look down at yourself, at the edges of your sleeves. Instead, you catch sight of yourself on the screens in the distance, and the both of you look regal and otherworldly.  
Good.  
Someone throws you a rose; it almost breaks you out of focus as it lands on your arm and almost falls to the floor of the chariot. You catch it on time, on reflex, and bring it up, smell it; it's a little too strong to be fully natural, but the scent has something nostalgic all the same; you catch yourself smiling a little, and instead tuck it into your belt, almost like a sword. Someone yells your name; you keep the smile on your face and look ahead again. Let them look at you. Let them know you're not afraid.  
Finally, your chariots reach the City Circle and line up. Next to you, the district four tributes still look dashing in their mermaid outfits, and the flowing veils take several seconds to flutter down after the chariot comes to a stop. On the other side, you finally get to see the district six tributes properly, in train attendant uniforms.   
The door leading to the first floor balcony of the President's mansion opens, and everyone looks up, excitement and curiosity rippling through the crowd. It's been several years since the president has made the speech himself, and every time people wonder if this will be the day he speaks in public again. But it's the Prime Minister who walks out, again, his strange hat perfectly balanced on his hair, as if by magic.  
He starts talking, and you have to tune him out immediately: there's something about his honeyed, slick pretense of _welcome_ that makes you want to throw up. Pretending to be nice when he and his beloved President are the ones to order you to die, every year.  
Thankfully, it doesn't last too long. After a few minutes, the anthem plays, and your horses start moving again, whisking you all into the ground floor of the training center.  
And the doors close behind you. You grip the edge of the chariot, willing yourself to stay calm. To not lash out at anyone.  
Your stylists and prep teams show up again, having taken their own, faster route to the center in actual motorised vehicles. They help you down from the chariots, and remove the crowns and armour so you can walk around more easily.  
“Nice rose,” Jaime tells you with a wink.  
You'd completely forgotten about the rose. You pull it out of your belt and flick it in his direction with a smile. Somehow, you've started to trust him, whether that's a good idea or not.  
“Want it?”  
He laughs.  
“I'm flattered, but no. Keep it, it's yours after all. Or maybe…”  
“… maybe?”  
“If you're fine with it, I can work it into your interview outfit. It'll be like a wink to the audience, and whoever threw it is sure to want to sponsor you after that. It'll give you a bit of extra romantic flair. Especially a red rose—it's a good pick for you.”  
“Will it even keep that long?” You pause. “… I guess nothing's stopping us from using a fresh one instead.”  
He laughs again.  
“We could. But it'll be fine. These roses are engineered to last long.”  
“How can you tell?”  
“By the smell. Natural ones are softer—but they're also rare these days. More delicate to grow, you see.”  
You nod.  
“I'll leave it in your hands, then.”  
You hand him the rose. He presses his hand flat against his heart as if taken by emotion before taking it and bowing.  
“Being handed a rose by Chrono Shindou himself… what a great honour.” You snort and he straightens with a wink. “You two were great, by the way. I was watching the broadcast on my tablet, the audience and announcers were all over you.”  
You nod. You want to be excited, but now that it's all behind you, exhaustion is starting to catch up. And knowing you're locked up in here makes you feel pressured, almost like you're crawling in the middle of machinery again.  
You blink. While you were chatting, most of the other tributes have cleared out with their own teams. Even Emellanna is on her way out.  
Jaime's face softens a little.  
“… let's get you changed so we can have dinner, shall we?”  
You nod again, grateful.

At dinner, you find Kouji and Rin again, along with both stylists.  
“You made a good impression,” Kouji says, his voice cold.  
“Yes, yes, good job, you were very cute,” Rin says with a wave of her hand. “I did already get some calls for potential sponsorships, though, so maybe you're worth the trouble. Now keep that up with the private training and the interviews.”  
She reaches for a dish of duck in a glistening glaze before it's even fully set on the table, and proceeds to ignore the looks you and Emellanna give her.   
Emellanna's stylist, a tall man with whitening hair and tatoos covering his arms, starts reading and commenting on the discussions people are having about you. You listen absently, trying to sample all of the food you've been given. You hadn't been very hungry, but eating a little kickstarts your appetite, and a few minutes later you're filling your plate again.  
Kouji, meanwhile, has been slowly going through a single plate of clear soup. You frown, but don't want to draw attention to him by pointing it out—and besides, the strategy meeting is probably more important right now.  
Dessert is an assortment of colourful fruit jellies in a large glass with a smooth frozen cream and decorations in what you think is probably hard caramel. You eat most of the cream, then pick at the jellies slowly.  
“Are you going to eat that?” Rin asks, pointing at a large caramel flower that you put down on the plate next to your glass.  
You shrug.  
“Be my guest.”  
She stretches, reaches in front of Jaime, and grabs it. You sigh and try to finish the rest.

After dinner, you disperse, an attendant taking you to your room. You're informed that you have free rein of the floor you were assigned, and of the rooftop gardens, if you so wish. Entering the quarters of other districts or interfering with them is strictly prohibited, as is leaving the building. You assume there's plenty of guards to make sure of that. Someone will come wake you up for breakfast, unless you're already in the dining room. Should you get hungry during the night, the dispenser in your room is available and food will be delivered to you within minutes.  
You nod until he's done, then thank him, and try to go to bed.  
You can't. It's still early, much earlier than you're used to, and even if you know you'll need all the rest you can get before going into the arena, you're just lying awake and starting to feel panic rising again.  
You take a shower. It helps unwind your body, at least, especially once you figure out how all the soap- and lotion-spewing buttons work and wrestle a calming purple flower scent out of it. But even after you come out, sleeps feels completely out of your reach.  
You pick an outfit from the room's own automatic clothes dispenser and head out.

The floor is eerily silent. The only noise you hear is that of celebration outside, almost completely muted in the corridor that runs along the outside wall and all its windows, and completely silent everywhere else.  
Celebration. What a joke.  
In the end, you find Rin in one of the rooms, typing away at her tablet while an attendant in white does her toenails.  
“If you're looking for Kouji,” she calls out before you can even ask, “he's out.”  
“Out?” you ask, not even bothering to pretend you weren't looking for him.  
“Left about half an hour ago. I wouldn't expect him before well into the night, if I were you.”  
You must have stared for a while because she actually turns her head to look at you and frowns.  
“Why are you still standing there like an idiot? Come on. Shoo. Unless you want to do the other foot?”  
You wince.  
“I'll pass, thanks.”  
“Off you go, then,” she says, gesturing you away. Technically, you have every right to be there, but honestly, you don't want to be stuck in a room with her.  
You walk out. The idea of Kouji just going out, especially in the Capitol, feels so alien, but then again, he might have gone to find you some sponsors. If Capitol people are all drunk and celebrating tonight, maybe they'll be easier to woo to one's side.  
Still, it doesn't leave you with much to do, and your chance to finish the previous day's conversation is gone. But you still have four days. You'll catch him eventually.  
With no better genius idea, you take the elevator to the roof and spare a few minutes to look at the city before running laps until you feel tired enough to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHERE DID IBUKI GO? You'll see. Maybe. I have a oneshot in the works, but it all depends on whether I can turn it into something I can post.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These just keep getting longer, oops.

In your dreams, the little tribute from last year stands on the stage, crying, his eyes fixed on you, singling you out of the crowd. You want to reach, to get on that stage with him and hug him and tell him everything will be okay, but your body won't move, and it feels so heavy until he leaves, still crying, and you look down at yourself, and you're seven again, small and clueless and disgustingly powerless, and so, so heavy, the weight so intense that it slows everyone around you.  
And then it's Kouji, on that stage, next to Emellanna, and you know if you let them walk away, if they get on that train, you'll never see them again, you'll wake up and everyone will be gone, erased from your memories as well as your life. You try to scream, to run forward, but you're still so small, and the stage is so far, and they're gone, and already you forget, and you stare at the sky, trying to remember, at the birds, _please, please tell me_ , but everything's slipping away, the birds flying out of sight, and behind you someone calls your name but you can't recognise their voice.  
You want to go home. But you don't even remember where it is. You don't even remember who it is.  
You look around but no one's looking at you, their eyes cast away from the omen of bad luck, from guilt, from what will pull them down and suck the energy from them if they get involved.  
You don't know how to go home.

You wake. Your body feels even heavier than usual, as if it'd given up on pretending that you even want to wake up, now that you don't have a household to supply and run.  
_The point's to get that back_ , you grumble at yourself internally. _And I can't do that if I just sleep my training days away._  
You groan and roll, more or less literally, out of bed, sitting on the floor for a few moments with your face pressed into your hands before actually getting up.  
How late is it even? It's hard to tell, with how efficiently the windows are obscured. But you do know from how rusty your body feels that you've slept far too long already.  
You take a quick shower to wake yourself up and walk to the closet—or clothes dispenser, you're not sure which is more appropriate—only to have it deliver you an outfit the second you try to turn it on. Jaime's, probably. You didn't know stylists even took care of the training clothes.  
You try it on. The trousers are perfectly sized, hugging your hips without hanging awkwardly at the waist, and just wide enough that you can move in them perfectly, even when you crouch to try them out. The shirt is surprisingly baggy, hanging from your shoulders like borrowed clothes, but when you try to move in it, it stays in place without any trouble, and doesn't hinder your movements.  
You look at yourself in the mirror. In all this black, especially the draped shirt, you'd almost look like you're headed for a fashionable evening at the Capitol, the glitter and excess aside, rather than for training. You look—almost attractive, and the thought makes you snort. Trust Jaime to prioritise that even though this is probably the one part of the games where no one cares about your looks. Unless he wants you to try and seduce the gamemakers, but that's an approach you really don't think you'd be any good at. Not when several other tributes are far more naturally attractive than you, and especially not considering your social awkwardness.

With no real reason to hang around and delay what could actually be useful training, you slip on the (nice, comfortable, _dynamic_ ) sports shoes that also got delivered to you, and head towards the dining room.  
What awaits you is a full breakfast _buffet_ , loaded with more choices that you could try even if you had the whole games to eat it, and an otherwise mostly empty table, with the exception of Kouji sitting at the opposite end, fiddling with a tablet.  
You wave slightly as he looks up, trying to look cheerful. He blinks, and stares at you.  
“… what?”  
“Nothing. It's good you're awake; I was about to come wake you up.”  
You wince.  
“Did I sleep in that much?”  
“It's almost ten.”  
“For real?” You growl slightly and hurry on to the buffet to get yourself something to eat. You need to move it. “I take it Emellanna's up?” you ask, filling a mug of coffee and setting it on the table.  
“She's already gone ahead. She said she'd rather I coach you separately.”  
“That's fair,” you sigh. It's the most rational decision: she probably thinks she knows what you're capable of (which is probably overestimating you; maybe that'll work in your favour) while you know close to nothing about her. She has nothing to gain by showing you what she can do. Still, you'd kind of wished you could cooperate at least a bit. A win for either of you still means a much more comfortable time for your families. “So what's your coaching for me, then?” you ask, loading some cold meat and salad on your plate and grabbing some bread.  
Slowly, silently, he puts his tablet down, then takes in a deep, slow breath, releasing it through his nose without a sound.  
And then he looks back up at you, eyes hard.  
“All right. I know Rive trained you in several sports when you were a child, and I've been keeping tabs on you since, but you're the one who knows yourself and your abilities the most. Tell me what you can do.”  
You blink. This is news to you—you haven't _talked_ to him in years, and he hasn't made any open attempt to communicate with you or Mikuru either, as far as you're aware. So you'd thought he didn't want anything to do with you. Hearing that he's been keeping an eye out is surprising—and makes part of you tighten with a little pang of regret. This entire time, maybe, you could've still been friends.  
“… I'm not sure,” you sigh. “I'm pretty strong I guess? I dunno how it'd measure up against kids from one, two or four—or even seven—but compared to other kids in school there's definitely a difference.”  
He nods.  
“I know you're strong and fast—what worries me if the lack of fighting experience.”  
You sit and start eating, measuring what he's told you.  
“Yeah… I mean, I've had a few brawls but not recently. People leave me alone. And it was always barehanded.”  
“It comes down to barehanded more often than you'd think. Try to learn a few techniques for that, if you can, and probably spears if they offer that. Time is too short to learn archery or elaborate knife or swordfighting.”  
You nod in agreement.  
“—I can swim,” you blurt out, suddenly remembering. “My boss said it could be useful.”  
“In the games, yes. But let's focus on what you can show the gamemakers, for now. Survival skills?”  
“I can make decent food out of anything, but _catching_ the food is gonna be a problem. Unless I get opportunities to fish—and a decent line.”  
“There's bound to be water, so keep that in mind. Anything else?”  
“… I can climb. Pretty much anything. In the dark, even.”  
That catches his attention.  
“How well are we speaking?”  
“If I can plot out my course ahead or feel around, I could climb most things with my eyes closed. I'm used to smooth surfaces with very thin places to hang on to or rest my feet, and I've had to balance on a couple of limbs while working tools with my other arm. Actually that's another thing: I can handle a lot of things without looking at them. I got used to dark cramped spaces so I rely on touch a lot.”  
“Would you be able to do it blindfolded?”  
“… probably, yeah. You want me to show that to the gamemakers?”  
“It will display both your strength and your skills in the dark. I think it might impress them. They'll be eager for someone who can fight at night, too; they've been complaining for the last couple of times that schedules were getting too predictable and that they had to 'shake things up' artificially.”  
You make a face.  
“It must be fun, being a gamemaker.”  
To your surprise, a ghost of a smile brushes his lips, just for a breath.  
“You get used to it. Don't show the other tributes that you can climb,” he continues without missing a beat. “Keep that for the private session. Is there anything else that comes to mind?”  
You sigh.  
“Not really. Honestly I'm mostly good at… household stuff. Cooking, cleaning. I'm decent at sewing.”  
“You excel at surviving.”  
You look up, surprised. He looks away when your eyes meet his.  
“… you said not to count you out of the game. So I'll help you to the best of my abilities,” he says quietly.  
Something inside you starts beating again.  
“… thank you.”  
He doesn't answer, but his shoulders do tense a little.  
“Here's the plan for today, then. Focus on learning what hand to hand and simple weapon combat you think you can manage. If any of the survival skills stations feel relevant, do those too. Focus on technique and avoid showing the full extent of your strength.”  
“Got it.”  
“… Chrono.”  
“Hm?”  
“There's one last thing.”  
His hesitation takes you by surprise, considering how blunt he was about the rest.  
“… what is it?”  
He takes in a deep breath, and releases it.  
“As a victor's son, there's a high chance you can get into the career pack, if you choose to. If you plan on it, you need to socialise with them _now_. But that choice is your call.”  
You think about it for a second.  
“… I think I'll pass.”  
“Are you sure?”  
“Yeah. Sure, they'll make it easier to survive early on, but by the time the pack breaks up, they'll know what I'm capable of, and then what do I do? They have actual combat training and it'll make all the difference. I don't think it's a good plan on the long run.”  
Plus, you don't like the idea of hunting those weaker than you as a pack. Not that any kind of killing is superior to the other, in the arena, but it still makes your skin crawl.  
“If you're sure, then. But you should still try to find potential allies, if you can. Whether you plan things ahead or not, having a sense of who you'd be willing to trust is a good idea.”  
You nod.  
Trust… is not something you'd think would have that much of a place in the arena. But in the end, it often does. It's what allowed him to survive, long enough to have a chance. The victor from a couple of years back also stuck close to his district partner, protecting her, and he came out victorious in the end. Maybe compassion isn't something you need to try and kill completely.  
And isn't it when you're protecting others that your strength comes out the most anyway? An alliance might be worth a shot.  
“I'll think about it. Anyone you'd recommend?”  
“I haven't seen them enough. Strategically, I'd say you're better off allying with someone who seems to have good survival skills, rather than a brute fighter. But I can't speak for their personality.”  
And you both know he isn't very good at judging people's intentions. This is something you'll have to decide on your own.  
You give him a small smile anyway, as if you were trying to reassure _him_ rather than yourself.  
“Thanks.”  
His eyes flit away, briefly, before settling on the table not far from you. You tear the rest of your bread into little pieces and eating it between sips of coffee.  
“… I'd better get going,” you sigh, emptying the last of your mug. “Wish me luck?”  
He stares at you as you stand, face smooth but lips tight.  
“… good luck.”

The training area is already packed when you arrive. You really need to be more careful with that oversleeping, if you don't want to make a bad impression—or miss out on the little scrap of training that could mean your life.  
A pair of boys stop the staff blows they were showering a dummy with and stand straighter to face you when you walk in their general direction.  
“Finally decided to grace us with your presence?”  
“I overslept,” you answer, blunt as you try to remember them. Right, one and two. Or two and one, really, since he spoke first. Not very surprising that they'd be together, but their attitude immediately rules out an alliance with the careers even more.  
“Might want to be careful about that,” One says—you wish you'd remembered his name, but you were busy being preoccupied with other things when you saw the reapings, and twenty two names is a _lot_. “Wouldn't want to miss training if you want to make it past the first day.”  
“Maybe he's hoping sleep'll make him taller,” Two snickers. “Not that it'll help you much at this point.”  
If you wanted to gain their approval—or to appear stronger—you'd answer with something witty and cutting. Make him look a little foolish, if you want him and his friends as allies, or very foolish, if you want to establish your superiority.  
But you're not interested, and verbal jousts have never been your strong suit anyway. So you just shrug and walk past them, towards the rest of the training stations.  
“See you in the arena, Junior,” Two calls out behind you. You ignore him and make your way to the edible plant station. You'll get started on weapons once they've lost interest; they can't afford to waste time mocking you either.

An hour later, you feel more confident in your ability to recognise which plants might have edible roots and leaves—and far less confident in your ability to remember in three days' time. It's a lot of information to stomach in one go, and your head's starting to spin like it does when you try to remember dates or formulas, so you politely thank the instructor and move on. You'll just have to come back the two next days and hope it sticks by then.  
Staff fighting doesn't produce miracles in the time you spend there—trying to pay attention to your _footwork_ when your hands and brain are already doing something new is too much—but at least you get decent at guarding yourself with it, which is better than nothing. You eye the spear throwing station, but by then, other tributes are starting to gather at the lunch tables, and you decide to follow them.  
You're not really hungry yet, but any food you can take in now will help.  
The tributes from one and two are already sitting together when you get there, talking loudly as they eat. To your surprise, those from four aren't. They arrive around the same time as you, and sit at a different table, together.  
You've been standing long enough. Rather than overthink it, you go load your plate with some meat and vegetables, then walk to the nearest table, where a boy is sitting alone.  
“D'you mind if I sit here?”  
He jumps a little, and the way his eyes flit up to you makes your brain immediately file him as cornered prey.  
“Oh. Um, yeah—I mean, no, go ahead.”  
“Thanks.”  
You sit on the opposite side, not quite facing him but a little to the side to avoid scaring him more, and start eating. He, on the other hand, has stopped, almost like you made him too nervous to go on, and you start feeling bad.  
He doesn't have much on his plate, either. Something in you wants to tell him he should eat, to give him advice, but what good would that do? You're one of his competitors. He's probably already picturing you killing him. Your help would probably be seen as condescending.  
You swallow down the urge, and find that food is harder to get down too after that.  
“… you're from five, right?”  
You look up, surprised; he looks away, as if caught red-handed doing something wrong.  
“… yeah.”  
“Our escort talked about you…” He seems to change his mind and shakes his head a little. “What's it like there?”  
“In my district?”  
He nods.  
“… crowded. Well, the main city is. If you go out to the mountains there's a lot less people.”  
“You have mountains?”  
Finally, you remember his face. District ten. They've changed his haircut a little.  
“Can't build dams without _some_ slope.”  
“… I never really thought about it.”  
He actually looks down about it, and your heart hurts.  
“… that's normal though. I don't know the first thing about raising animals. Or about, say, coal, aside from how much you need to put in a heater.”  
“… I guess you're right.”  
You keep eating, reaching for a bowl of bread at the center of the table. There's many different kinds, most of which you've never seen before but that you've heard comes from each district. Out of curiosity, you pick a slightly green loaf, and tear some pieces from it to eat with your vegetables.  
“… you're a lot less scary in person.”  
You blink. He looks away again.  
“Sorry.”  
“… did I look scary before?”  
“At the reaping.”  
You wince.  
“… you didn't look scared,” he says, quietly.  
“… I was. But it's less scary when you're there than waiting for it.”  
He looks down, silent.  
“… you should eat more,” you finally cave and tell him. “You'll need it.”  
“What's the point?”  
A wave of anger crashes through you, and it's not directed at him.  
“… my mentor won when he was twelve, you know? And he didn't know how to fight before. And remember that year when the volcano blew up and all the big competitors died and there were only three people left? You never know what can happen.”  
He still doesn't look at you. You want to reach for him, but you can't. He feels too far away. You don't know how to mend that gap, not in these circumstances.  
“… if you're the one who kills me, make it quick, okay?”  
You stare at him as he picks up his plate and stands.  
_I hope it doesn't come to that_ , you almost say, but what's even the point? What does it change? What does it change for him if it's you or someone else? What does it change if _he_ kills you or someone else does?  
Well, it does change one thing. If it's him, it means he's still alive at that point. Not that it changes much for you.  
“Hey,” you call out. He stops and turns, slightly. “… same to you,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady.  
He stares at you for a second, then walks away.

You try to keep eating after that, but you feel too sick and restless to swallow much. So you just force yourself to finish your plate and get up, without getting seconds or dessert, and start walking around to find another station, nibbling at what's left of your bread.  
You settle on an empty one focused on knots and traps. You know a few knots from the rare times you've climbed with a rope as opposed to no protection at all, but the trainer has much more complicated ones for you—and more importantly, more varied ones, each with their own use. Knots that tighten, knots that loosen with one pull on the right strand but become undoable from any other tension, knots that look strong but will break apart, knots that slide, knots that don't. You learn a basic trap for animals—if you can find the right kind of string, or make something similar—and one that will tighten around someone's leg—or neck—once they pull on it, with a knot that slides one way and not the other.  
After a couple of hours, you switch to the camouflage station, where the trainer takes one look at your hair and wishes you good luck. You can't even be mad. She's right.  
By the time you're called to gather at the center of the gymnasium and then head to your respective floors, you're covered in mud that you didn't quite wash out, and your arms and back hurt from the unfamiliar movement, but at least you're somewhat confident in your ability to hold a spear correctly, if maybe not to fight against someone who's trained with it for years. But you still have two days. Maybe by then you'll be able to fight against someone who's trained _if_ they're already tired and wounded, which would already be an improvement.  
Emellanna, when you've actually caught sight of her, has mostly been practicing with weapons. Maybe she already has an edge in the survival department? You don't really _know_ anything about her. Not her family, not her circumstances.  
At least, she seems less cranky as you board the elevator when Rin comes to pick you up.  
“Heads up,” Rin says, “we've got some juicy deals already.”  
“This early?”  
“What, didn't Kouji tell you?”  
“… no? We've been here all day.”  
“Oh, oops, my bad,” she says in a voice that doesn't sound apologetic at all, and suddenly you wonder what she actually means, whether the deals were already signed this morning.  
But getting anything out of _her_ is bound to be a headache.  
“I've got a few names lined up too,” she continues, leaning against the side of the elevator and checking her nails, “but you're going to have to make a splash at the private session if you actually want them to sign. Something to keep you motivated, hmm?”  
“You say that like we're not already,” Emellanna grumbles, and, yeah, she's right. As if either of you needed any better motivator than trying to stay alive. As if you weren't already trying your best.  
But you remember the boy from earlier. Not everyone has that kind of motivation.  
You wonder if the kid from last year did.  
Suddenly, the image of a scared child having to deal with her constant crass, insensitive bullying flashes in your mind, and what little appreciation you'd developped for her is pushed at the back of your consciousness.  
She's useful. But no amount of efficiency is going to excuse who she is and what she does.  
It's when you get called for dinner that you remember you'd wanted to try and make allies. But over the course of the day, no one really stood out to you—partly because no one ever came to share your training stations.

After dinner, you decide to go back up to the roof to run the heavy feeling in your stomach off. You'll need all the training you can take, and maybe getting your blood flowing will help flush out the soreness in your upper body.  
Unlike the previous day, you find the roof already occupied. One of the career girls, sitting on the floor against a wall and looking up at the sky. Well, maybe it's not that surprising, it _is_ much earlier. She turns in your direction as you get there, and frowns, as if she'd been expecting something else. You meet her eyes then walk past, and into the roof garden and its chimes.  
And then, leaning against a railing and looking down at the city below, his hair shifting around in the omnipresent wind and hiding parts of his face, you find Kouji.  
For a second, your heart beats a little faster. And then you remember the obvious: even here, even if the wind and chimes would probably make your conversation hard to record, there's not only at least cameras (they wouldn't let tributes from different districts in the same space without them) but also, today, the other girl and whoever she was waiting for. It'd be easy for them to come creep on your conversation.  
But that doesn't mean you can't _talk_ to him. It just means you have to be careful what you talk about.  
You walk towards him. He senses your approach and turns, when you're a couple of feet behind him. You don't stop, but instead take the last couple of steps to the railing, and lean against it too, back to the city.  
“… Chrono.”  
“Hey,” you say, quietly, the faintest smile coming to your face despite yourself. “… they got any birds in this place?”  
He shakes his head.  
“Not many, but there's one kind that feeds on discarded food. They flock on the dirtier streets.”  
“Huh. I thought they kept everything clean here.”  
“They do. But there's always some time before it happens. And birds are fast.”  
You nod.  
“The other birds are kept in cages, here,” he says, quietly.  
“Huh? Wouldn't they be super high maintenance as pets?”  
“They are. But that makes them even more desirable. Showing one off means you have the money to pay someone to take care of it, or the time to do it yourself.”  
“… or both,” you finish for him. What is _wrong_ with these people?  
He nods.  
_Guess we're not so different. Held in our pretty building and its nice forcefield._ But you won't be high maintenance for long.  
You sigh, and lean back, letting your head fall back a little, looking up at the sky. Does the force field go all the way up? Does it curve above you like a dome? Or could you fly up and away to freedom, if you had wings?  
But you couldn't. The bonds of love and loyalty hold you to the ground better than any cage. You'd rather die than make the people you love pay the price of your freedom.  
You'll just have to fight, to the best of your abilities.  
“… so what's that about you getting us good sponsor deals already?” you ask, still looking up.  
Even without seeing him, you feel him tense.  
“Did Rin tell you about it?”  
“Yeah. I can't tell if she's trying to be helpful or just mess with us.”  
He clicks his tongue and sighs, deflating a little.  
“… one of my old sponsors has already signed a very generous sponsor deal for you,” he says quietly.  
It takes you a second to understand.  
“Wait. Me, specifically?”  
“Yes.” His hands tighten. “I tried, but…”  
_But people sign for one tribute specifically often,_ you think. _What's different?_  
But you already know the answer, from how he avoids looking at you.  
And what can you tell him? 'It's not your fault'? Nice words from the one being sponsored. The only one who could tell him that is Emellanna herself, and you doubt she would.  
“I know you're trying,” you simply say, and hope it'll help even a little.  
“I signed a few more today, for both of you. People liked your entrance, you two and the girl from district four gathered a lot of attention. More than usual.”  
“That's good.” You pause, then finally cave. “Is that where you were last night? Signing that deal?”  
He nods.  
“She invited me. I hadn't planned on going out.”  
Well that explains a few things at least. He wouldn't refuse that kind of invitation if there was a chance they'd sign up to help.  
“… thank you,” you tell him, quietly.  
“It's my job,” he says, and it sounds _wrong_ but what can you even do about it, with only two days ahead of you and a world already set on destroying you.  
“… I'll do my best,” is all you can answer. “… hey, Kouji.”  
“Hm?”  
“If I make it out of there alive… take me bird-watching?”  
He actually looks at you, then.  
“Remember how we wanted to go together, back then?” you continue. “But I was too young so they wouldn't let us. Well there's no one stopping us now.”  
He stares. You hold your ground, even though your stomach is twisting already with a tinge of guilt. Who are you to ask him for promises, to tie him back to you like that, when you might leave him behind to deal with the aftermath?  
“… ask me again when you come back,” he finally says, straightening and looking straight in front of him instead, “and I will.”  
Well. You'll take it.  
“Deal.”  
You stand in silence for a while, him standing straight, his gaze lost in the distance, you still leaning back against the railing, eyes on the sky, on the plants in the garden, on him.  
You don't want to move. You know, really, that you'll have to eventually, that this moment won't last, that in a few days you might be dead. But you want to hold on to this feeling. You want to keep observing him, to keep listening to the chimes around you and the distant sounds of the city, to feel the wind. You don't want to take anything for granted as you rush forward anymore.  
If you survive, you are going to spend _time_ with the people you care about. The rest can wait.  
“How did training go?” he asks out of the blue.  
“Pretty well. I didn't really make any friends—I think everyone's keeping their distance. But I can hold a spear or staff properly now. And make traps.”  
He nods.  
“That's good.”  
“… can I ask you something? … a personal question.”  
He tenses slightly.  
“Go ahead.”  
“Did you and Alter… you know. Plan ahead. Did you train together?”  
His eyes close at the mention of his old partner's name, and for a moment you think you've gone too far. His hands come to rest on the railing, gripping it tight.  
“… no,” he finally says, opening his eyes again. “I didn't know I wasn't alone until they saved me at the cornucopia.”  
“Oh…”  
“I still don't understand why they did it.”  
You stare at him in silence for a few moments.  
“… I can think of a few reasons,” you finally say. Him, for one thing. You can't imagine getting to know who he actually is and not feeling even slightly protective. But that's something you don't think he'll listen to. “… you know,” you tell him, instead, “last year I almost volunteered.”  
His eyes jerk to you, suddenly, harsh and a little alarmed, and you give him a little smile.  
“I guess it doesn't change anything now. Someone else'd have gotten reaped in my place this year. But back then… Sometimes, you just want to mess with the rules. Everyone just accepts what's happening, and yeah, we don't really have a choice. But sometimes… sometimes you just want to challenge that fatalism. You want to think, 'maybe the kid'll make it even though everyone thinks he's already dead', or 'maybe someone will volunteer and save this child who's crying' and _make it happen_. Sometimes you just want to show that cruelty doesn't have to win.” You chuckle. “Course it does still win in the end, in a way. Even if I'd volunteered to save one kid, I'd have had to kill others if I wanted to survive. Or just let myself die. There's always a cost. But… it still feels worth it, just to shake people's expectations. Just to remind people that it doesn't have to be this way. That we don't have to accept _everything_.” You smile at him, then, small but genuine. “Maybe they just refused to accept that you had to die. Maybe changing the rules was more important to them than just trying to win at all costs. If you're gonna be killing people anyway, might as well make it _worth_ it instead of just making it about survival.”  
He stares at you for a few seconds, and as he turns his eyes away you catch something in them that almost looks like fear.  
“Challenging the rules has a price,” he says quietly. “Even in that way.”  
“… I know. But sometimes the price's worth it.”  
And Alter had had nothing left to pay with other than their life. The only thing more the Capitol could have taken away was Kouji himself, but he would likely have died if they'd done nothing anyway. So there had been something to win, and nothing to lose.  
Aside from their own life and future, that is. You wonder if they'd find it worth it, if they could see the both of you now.  
But if they shared the same fire in their gut that you feel burning right now, you think they probably would.  
“If you want to survive these games…” he starts, and you shake your head, sighing.  
“I know. I gotta be a good little killing machine. No big rebellious gesture.”  
“As long as you understand.”  
“I promised you I'd do my best to come back, wouldn't I? Considering my odds, I think surviving would be challenging enough.”  
For a moment, he stays frozen. And then he sighs, harshly, in exasperation or disbelief.  
“You never give up, do you?”  
“If I did, I'd have died a long time ago.”  
“Try not to do it in three days, then. I won't forgive you if you do.”  
He turns on his heel and walks away, sadly missing the grin that spreads on your face.

The next day, when you arrive at training, you aim for the spear station first, determined to solidify what you learned the previous day before the feeling flees from your muscle memory. Within five minutes, your muscles are screaming again, but this time they move to the rhythm better, already some noticeable progress. After an hour of it you take your leave, planning to come back again in the evening, and move through a couple of stations, before settling at the fishing one while it's empty.  
“I know how to fish if I have a line,” you tell the instructor, “but I doubt they'll give us that. Can you teach me how to make hooks?”  
He does. Fiddling with the wire is hard and your fingers feel clumsy, but you keep going, well enough that he starts giving you tips on how to make them in different materials.  
“But if you really want to feed yourself on fish, you might want to learn how to make nets or traps,” he tells you.  
“Well, I don't have anywhere to be, do I? Teach me.”  
He's just sat you down to reach for a pile of long grasses from a basket when someone reaches over your shoulder and takes one of your hooks from the table in front of you.  
You jump. Normally, you pride yourself on your reflexes and ability to feel people around you, but this person was so quiet and natural in the atmosphere around you that you didn't sense their presence until you saw their hand in front of you.  
“You're better than I thought,” a low feminine voice says.  
You turn, expecting an adult, another instructor, but it's the girl tribute from district four, the one with the long flaming hair, face stern but empty of aggressiveness as she examines your hook.  
From up close, you can actually see her eyes, and they're as green as your own.  
“… thanks?” you answer, wary and confused.  
“Do you know how to use it?”  
“Should I be revealing my secrets?”  
A hint of a smile brushes her lips.  
“I know you can do this much, already.”  
And you wouldn't be learning this if you didn't know how to fish, either. The arena is probably not the best place to learn.  
Well, she's got you there.  
“We have a lot of water in five. It's just not the sea.”  
Your instructor comes back with his grass.  
“What are you doing here?” he asks, eyebrow raised but not actually harsh. “I doubt I'd have anything to teach you.”  
“I was curious.”  
He stares at her, then shrugs.  
“Well, as long as you don't interfere with other tributes.”  
Observing the competition probably doesn't count as 'interfering', so when he starts teaching you how to tie the grass together without cutting yourself, even though she's watching over your shoulder still, he doesn't call her out on it.  
After a few minutes, another tribute comes to ask him something, the little girl you'd noticed from 12. She seems nervous but hasn't given up the way you think some have; he stands up with an apology and goes to talk to her.  
You focus on your net rather than trying to listen in on their conversation. It's giving you enough trouble as is, the knots unraveling in your hands before you can secure them. You try to grip them harder, to hold them between your other fingers to keep them steady as you work, but it's not helping much.  
“You need to twist here, before you thread it in.”  
She sits down next to you, and picks some strands of her own.  
“See, here. The twist will maintain the tension and stop it from unraveling. Once you have several links, it will look more even.”  
She weaves her own grass together, faster than you—faster than the instructor, even, with the ease and casual grace of someone who's done this their entire life, not as a hobby. But even though she's fast, the rhythmical dance of her fingers shows you the path the strands and points of tension must take, better than the slow, methodical movements of the instructor earlier.  
You pick up your own net and start weaving again, slowly but paying attention to the path and pattern your grass takes. And after a few mistakes, a first misshapen but solid link appears. Then another, still misshapen but a little more regular. Then another.  
“Like this?” you ask, holding it up and praying it won't suddenly unravel _now_. It doesn't.  
She nods.  
“… okay, so why are you helping me?” you ask, sighing and putting it back down on the table.  
“You won't be as good as me at weaving in a few days of training.”  
“I know that. But you still didn't have to.”  
“… I'm teaching you a skill that may help you have the advantage against other tributes,” she says, not looking at you, “but at the same time, by talking to you, I'm learning about one of my strongest competitors.”  
“… so it benefits us both,” you finish, torn between feeling flattered or yet again sad that people consider you one of the strongest.  
It wouldn't do for them to gang up against you to take you down first, either.  
She nods, and keeps weaving. For someone who's supposedly talking to you to learn from you, she's not being very talkative. But her fingers seem to move as with a mind of their own, and you're not sure her eyes are entirely focused on what she's holding and doing.  
Maybe that's the real reason she sat down to weave. Maybe doing this feels as calming to her as cooking does to you.  
You really can't blame her for it. What would't you give for a chance to unwind and calm down yourself?  
“So who else do you consider competition, then?” you ask her quietly, weaving more links into your net.  
“One and two, especially the girls. The boy from seven—he doesn't look strong, but he caught something heavy earlier when it was falling. Strong and fast.”  
You hold back the urge to whistle.  
“That's observant.”  
“Volunteering without having the skills to notice these kinds of things would be beyond foolish.”  
“… you have a point.” You hesitate, then continue, still weaving: “You might be right about that boy. My escort thought the same thing.”  
She nods.  
“… the girl from six too, I think she said.”  
“She spent most of yesterday on camouflage and traps. You'd have run into her if she wasn't avoiding you.”  
You almost fumble with your net, and barely manage not to drop it. Has this girl watched _everyone_? The entire time?  
She might be one of the strongest people here, you think, immediately convinced of your instincts. And yet she considers you competition?  
You're going to have to be very, very careful, especially at the start of the games.  
“Kurenai.”  
You both turn, you much faster than her, to face a tall boy with strong arms and shoulders, his eyes as piercingly red as hers are green.  
“Is something the matter?” she asks, still calm and collected. You aspire to that level of composure.  
The boy's eyes flick to you for a second, not quite glaring but visibly distrustful.  
“I'm going to practice at the archery range. Do you want to join?”  
“… I think I will,” she says, putting her work down and standing. “I'll see you in the arena,” she adds, turning to you as she straightens the tunic she's wearing.  
“… hopefully not,” you answer, and for the first and probably last time you're rewarded by an amused glint in her eyes and the slightest turn of the corner of her mouth before she walks off, her silent steps covering as much ground as her partner's large but—you notice with some surprise—equally silent strides.  
They start talking as they walk, but with the ambient noise, you can't hear a word, and soon they've gone out of range anyway. You decide to get back to your work.

A few minutes later, the trainer comes back.  
“So, how have you been doing?”  
You finish your knot and pick up one corner of the net, showing it off silently. He beams.  
“That's not bad at all! With some practice, you'll look like a professional.”  
“If I survive long enough to have time to practice,” you point out, “I won't need to practice anymore.”  
He falters for a second, pushed off balance by your bluntness, then gives a nervous little cough.  
“Well, do you want to learn the traps, then? I've been showing this young lady here.”  
You nod, and let him show you yet another set of knots.

You practice the fish traps in silence for over an hour, the trainer awkwardly moving between you and the other tribute, then go back to the net for a few minutes once you're done, just to check that you still remember. By then, most of the other tributes are finishing their lunch, so after that you hurry to grab something, before moving through the stations again—knife throwing, fire starting, tracking basics—before returning to your spears, wincing at you force the soreness out.  
“You should stretch when you're done,” the trainer tells you, amused, as you wince and massage your shoulder.  
“I'll keep it in mind,” you grumble. But she's right. Anything that helps you recover is good, be it stretching or abusing those hot showers and their relaxing scents.  
By the end, you're exhausted and nervous but feeling reasonably better prepared. For the games, at least. The private training feels much more daunting, right now. You haven't had a chance to train on any of the skills you're meant to be showing off, and you really wish you'd been able to climb a little or lift some weights. You'd do some pushups when you get to your room, but you can't strain your arms anymore if you want to be able to hang from them without letting go. Even the spear training is going to have to be lighter tomorrow, if you want to save your strength.  
You're used to this feeling of needing more than twenty four hours in a day to do all you have to do. But when at home it helped empty your mind, here it just makes you nervous.  
_I'm not ready_ , part of you is screaming.  
_Well, I'll just have to be._ You'll have to be stronger than the kids from one and two and their confident grips on their weapons, stronger than Kurenai and her sturdy yet agile hands and silent steps. And if you can't wow the gamemakers, well, the rating isn't everything. It'll just make things a little harder.

That night, you go running again, and lie in your bed practicing knots and weaves in your head until you fall asleep.


	5. Chapter 5

On the morning of the third day, you wake up torn between panic and complete serene acceptance.  
You'll never be ready. No amount of training will actually make you ready to fight for your life against people much better trained and armed, and no amount of mental bracing will make you ready to fight for your life against people weaker than you who'll have to die if you want to live.  
But at the same time, knowing that you won't be ready takes away the fear and uncertainty of it. There's no anxiety about whether you can be ready on time. You won't. So now all you can do is, in a way, kill time until you're in the arena. And preferably in ways that'll actually help.  
On the bright side, you're actually early this time. So you take a nice long shower, stretch your muscles again, and then go take a larger than usual breakfast.

In training, there's a feeling of restlessness stretching through the entire gymnasium. Everyone's either nervous or pumped for the private training session. And honestly you're no exception. You're going to have to go in and trust in skills you haven't had a chance to practice.  
As you make your way to the plant station—you really could use that reminder—you hesitate in front of the archery range. If by chance you find a bow, having at least the _basics_ could make a huge difference. But going in and learning the basics would reveal to everyone that you have no idea how they work—you know the _theory_ , but you have no idea how one shoots _properly_ —and that's probably not a good choice. You'd rather be able to bluff. If you do get a bow, you'll just have to find somewhere safe and train in the games themselves.  
You spend the morning reviewing things you've learned at several of the stations, and expanding your rope and knot repertoire with a hammock that could keep you safe off the ground even without good branches to sleep on.  
And then lunch comes. And one by one, the tributes from the first districts start getting called in for their private sessions, and almost everyone gives up on really doing anything productive.  
With nothing better to do, you go pick up some grass at the fishing station and sit and weave to clear your mind until you hear Emellanna's name get called.  
And then finally yours.  
_Well. Here goes_.  
You walk in and take in the room. Sure enough, there's a climbing wall—which is good because you'd have been short of a plan otherwise. Above you in a corner, the gamemakers are eating, as usual, but you decide to ignore them for now. Anger will only make you sloppy.  
You walk around looking for supplies. Not everyone wants to demonstrate fighting skills; there's bound to be some for people who want to show off their ability to survive, or camouflage, or—  
You catch sight of a first aid kid and make straight for it, pulling some bandages out.  
Then you take a backpack from the camouflage part and stuff it with a small sandbag, before dragging a practice dummy in the middle of the room—under the overhanging climbing wall—and after a moment's hesitation, surround it with several landing mats. You can't win the games if you injure yourself before them.  
_There are so many ways this could go wrong_. If you fail, you'll make an idiot of yourself. But this is more than a way to get a good rating. If you catch the gamemakers' attention, they might favour you in the arena. It's worth the risk.  
You shoulder the backpack and take a deep breath. The wall, you note as you walk closer to it, has nicely spaced holds; you shouldn't have to jump around too much, which is good but maybe less impressive. You map the path in your head, focusing on the overhand in particular: you can't afford to make a single mistake there, and you won't get a second chance.  
_Okay. Okay. I can do this._  
Taking your time to make _sure_ the gamemakers can see what you're doing, you wrap the bandages around your head, several times around, covering your eyes, and tuck the end in snugly at the back. And then you face the wall.  
The first few holds are the scariest, somehow. You're not quite used to these shoes, even though they're actually better for this than your old ones. But with every careful pull and push of your arms and legs, you get more confident, arranging your body and weight on the holds with calm, meticulous determination before reaching out for things you already know will be there. Once, hoping that they're actually watching you, you take a more show-off approach to a step, swinging your body weight around to a hold you can't yet reach rather than going around that area with easier ones. And even through your breathing, you hear the murmur of their voices rise.  
_Good_.  
The wall starts curving, no longer vertical but sloped upside down, and you grit your teeth and reach more carefully for the next hold, then the next, hooking your feet wherever you can to take some of the weight off your muscles, and your arms in particular. You'll have to go quickly before you tire out too much. The added weight is definitely making everything harder, but you hope the bag hanging from your back and affecting your balance will give them an idea of your strength.  
And finally you reach the last two holds you were aiming for.  
_It's now or never_. You can take a risk and try your crazy stunt or leave it at that. What you've already done is probably impressive enough anyway.  
_When have I ever pulled back from risks_ , you sigh at yourself, readjusting yourself.  
You take a deep breath. Unhook your feet first, to make sure you won't stay caught on the wall and injure your leg before you even land. And you jump.  
You hit the mat and almost panic—are you too far, did you miss it—but as you start rolling to reduce the impact you feel the dummy with your foot, just where you left it, and you hook your leg around it and jerk it towards you, sending it rolling with you and wrapping your arm around its neck as soon as you come on top.  
Your body is screaming, the impact still resonating in all of your bones even with the mat—you're going to have to be careful with your ankles and knees over the next two days—and your lungs are panting now that you no longer have to keep them steady to avoid falling.  
After a few seconds, you release your 'victim' and stand, rolling to the side and then to your knees and up in one fluid movement.  
“Can you really see nothing under there?” a voice calls from above.  
“Do you want to come down and check?” you call back before you can stop yourself. Hopefully that won't be _too_ rebellious.  
Another voice laughs, and the first one answers again.  
“That won't be necessary. Is there anything else you'd like to show us?”  
“I could lift some more weights but I think I made my point,” you say, shrugging off your backpack—which, you now feel, did bruise your back a bit—and holding it at arm's length before dropping it on the mat. You can't see it, of course, but the sound it makes on impact and the slight shift of tension of the mat tells you it sunk nicely and visibly.  
“… very well. You're dismissed, Shindou.”  
You nod and pull off the bandages, wincing as light hits your eyes. For a minute, you have to hold your hand over them even with your eyelids closed. Hopefully they won't kick you out, because you do need the time to recover. And then finally you can stand the light well enough to hold them a sliver, and you bow a little before heading out, still shielding your eyes from most of the light.

You head straight back to your floor after that. Now that you're finally out, the full weight of the risk you took is finally catching up to you, and your brain is screaming that maybe, just maybe, you were _incredibly and stupidly rash_ and you're lucky you didn't injure yourself. But part of you wanted to show off, and another part really wanted to show that your skills aren't in brutality the way everyone seems to expect.  
_Well, the risk paid off at least._ Now you'll just need to…  
… to…  
You falter a little. Now, you have no real goal for what's left of the afternoon, nor really for tomorrow—although no doubt Rin and Kouji will. Jaime too. But that's in their hands, mostly. There's not much _you_ can do and it feels powerless and restless. You need something to do. A sense of direction. You've never really been idle in _years_.  
_Let's start by resting. I'll need it_.  
You're so caught up in your thoughts that you almost bump right into Kouji as you exit the elevator.  
“Sorry!”  
He catches your shoulder and makes sure you're stable before releasing you.  
“It's fine. How did it go?”  
“I didn't injure myself so I'll call it pretty good.”  
He frowns.  
“I, uh, kinda took your idea of climbing blindfolded and went a little overboard. Jumped on a dummy from above.”  
He sucks in a little breath.  
“That was foolish.”  
“Yeah. Probably. Guess all the pressure's getting to my head.” You sigh. “I'm fine though, and I think I made an impression. Are you allowed to give me stuff for bruises and the like?”  
“Yes. Come with me.”

While he's hunting for medical supplies, you take the chance to take a very quick shower—you'll probably need to leave whatever he applies _on_ and you'd rather not have to spend hours covered in cooling sweat. You'll probably spend enough time doing that in the arena.  
As you come out, trousers back on and drying your hair, someone knocks on the door.  
“Yeah?”  
“It's me.”  
“Come in.”  
Normally, you'd have waited to put your shirt back on first. But most of the bruises are on your back anyway.  
The door opens and he comes in, carrying a small case. He freezes for a fraction of a moment when he looks up, but you give him a side smile and a little wave, and he sighs and closes the door behind him before coming closer.  
“Sit down.”  
You sit on the bed, cross-legged. He sits on the edge, behind you, and takes one look at your back before hissing softly.  
“How did you do this?”  
“… that bad?”  
“The bruises are forming already, and you've only been out for half an hour.”  
You feel movement behind you, close to your skin, but no contact.  
“I put on a backpack with some sand weight in it.”  
“And you climbed and jumped with it?”  
“Yeah.”  
“… when did you develop such a rash streak?”  
“… I think I held it back for years and now it's all coming out.”  
“Try not to let it out too much and get yourself killed,” he murmurs, opening his case and shuffling inside.  
A few moments later, you hear the popping sound of something being opened, and then something cool spreads across your skin, easing the pain you hadn't even noticed was there. You shiver, both at the temperature and the feeling of his hand touching your skin; you probably haven't actually touched him since you were children, you suddenly remember. And he's never been that good with physical contact; it makes you all the more grateful that he's caring for you now personally. He could just have asked one of the Capitol attendants to do it.  
“… that feels nice,” you sigh, letting your back muscles relax. “I didn't even notice it was hurting until now.”  
You almost expect him to chastise you for that, but he stays silent, carefully rubbing the ointment into your bruised skin until you can barely feel any of it on your skin anymore.  
“… thanks,” you quietly tell him once he removes his hand.  
“Don't mention it. Are you hurt anywhere else?”  
“Think the ankles took the impact a bit more than I planned, but they should be fine.”  
“I'll strap them just in case.”  
“You can do that?”  
“I trained for it, the first year I came back. During the second half of the games.”  
After his tributes were dead. No wonder. Even if he couldn't reach them, the feeling of powerlessness was probably overwhelming. And Alter's death was probably still weighting on him.  
“… I'm sorry,” you find yourself saying, quietly.  
He snorts.  
“For what?” He stands before you can answer and walks around you to sit again, this time in front of you. You obediently extend your leg so he can look at it. “It was a good distraction. I needed it.”  
“From the games?”  
“From everything.” He pushes the fabric up a little and examines your ankle. “I don't think there's any real damage.”  
“Do you still want to strap it?”  
“Yes. It won't hurt to keep it stable until you have to go in.”  
You nod. He reaches for some bandages and starts working on it.  
It feels strange. It's been a while since anyone's actually taken care of you in that way: Mikuru did it when you were a child, but as you grew up and she grew busy, you've taken to doing everything you can yourself. Trusting your body to someone else isn't something you're used to anymore, and after the hours you spent in the hands of the prep team a mere three days ago (hell, you're going to have to do that again the day after tomorrow, you remember with a sinking feeling), you're hyperaware of it. And on the other hand, _he_ seems tense, unusually quick and curt for someone normally so thorough. You don't think he's making any mistakes, but it's like he's being tested for efficiency.  
“… hey.”  
He looks up, startled.  
“Huh?”  
“… calm down.” You wince. “Okay, I know it's hard in this situation, but I'm not going anywhere right now. You don't need to rush.”  
He looks away. You wonder whether you should explain what you're trying to say better, but before you can find the right words, he picks up his task where he left it, this time more slowly and carefully.  
“I won't make mistakes,” he says quietly.  
“That's not what I was worried about,” you sigh. But he doesn't offer any extra explanation, and instead finishes his work on your foot and ankle, and ties the bandage carefully.  
“Try moving it.”  
You move your foot around, drawing circles with your ankle. It feels well supported, but doesn't hinder your movements.  
“Feels good to me. Want the other leg?”  
He nods. You pull your leg back to sit on it and stretch the other towards him.  
“You should rest as much as possible afterwards,” he says, taking hold of your ankle and wrapping the end of the bandage around it.  
“I'll try. It's kinda hard when I feel so restless.”  
“At least don't go running around tonight.”  
You wince.  
“Fine, you have a point. No running. I'll try and lie down a bit before dinner too. That good?”  
“Mmm. We have herbal tea to fight the symptoms of anxiety. Just ask an attendant if you want some, maybe it will make it easier to rest.”  
“I… might take you up on that offer, actually,” you say, wondering how many tributes have had actual attacks before. “Maybe you should have some too.”  
His lips twitch a tiny bit as his free hand reaches higher on your leg, holding your ankle up for the roll of bandages to go under. You'd almost think it's a smile.  
“I can't. I have to be properly awake in case anyone contacts us after they announce your scores.”  
“… I can't even tell you off if you're just doing your job, can I?” you sigh. “Make sure to rest at some point though.”  
“Mmm.”  
“I _mean_ that.”  
“… I know. I'll try.” And then he sighs. “… why are you always like this?”  
“Huh? Like what?” You wince inwardly. “Am I being overbearing?”  
He shakes his head.  
“No… nevermind. I'll try to rest too, if nothing comes up.”  
The next minute or two go by in silence. He works carefully, eyes never leaving your ankle, and finally ties off the second bandage too, allowing you to check how it feels. Just like before, it barely affects you at all. If feels safe, even if you're unused to having something tight around your feet.  
He pulls his hands back and puts them down on his lap, as if unsure what to do next.  
“… when do they give the scores?” you ask after a while to break the silence.  
“After dinner. You have some time to rest, they still haven't finished watching everyone.”  
You nod.  
“… I'll try the tea,” you say, making to stand, but he stops you.  
“I'll get it.”  
“But—”  
“I need to put this away anyway. You stay off your ankles.”  
“Fine,” you sigh, before an idea strikes you. “Have a cup with me, then.” He turns back to stare at you, and you try to smile. “Won't hurt, right?”  
“… I will if you promise not to move.”  
“Deal.”

You lie down on your bed and wait for him to come back. That is one promise you can keep easily at least, unlike the other ones you want to make.  
It doesn't take him very long. Within a few minutes of you lying on your back and drifting a little, he's back with a tray with two mugs on it, and a plate of biscuits.  
You raise an eyebrow at him.  
“Someone saw me preparing it and insisted on the biscuits,” he says, putting the tray down on the nightstand.  
“Always so concerned with our well-being, huh?”  
He snorts lightly, but his next reply comes quiet and a little sad.  
“This was one of the Avox from the staff, actually.”  
Immediately, your bitterness subsides, replaced by a slight sense of guilt. Talk about aiming at the wrong target.  
You don't know what cause an Avox would have to be fond of you, considering most of them are Capitol-born in the first place, but they're likely victims of the Capitol's rule too, and in this situation, the enemy of your enemy is your friend, unless proven otherwise.  
Or maybe they _are_ looking forward to the games. But sometimes you tire of being pessimistic.  
“Well,” you say, picking up one of the biscuits and dunking it in your mug, “they can't hurt. There's enough time to sleep them off before dinner.”  
It turns out to be warm and spicy, and soft when wet with tea without just falling apart. To your own surprise, you pick up a second one and do it again.  
Kouji, meanwhile, is holding his cup without drinking it. You give him a look until he seems to snap out of his thoughts and finally takes a sip.  
All of a sudden, you're hit with a strong sense of nostalgia. You used to do this, as kids, in the year and half when you were actually close. When he came to your house, or when your father brought you to his, and the weather was cold outside, someone always ended up serving some hot drinks, and the two of you would usually sit and enjoy yours in comfortable silence, tuning out the adults' louder talk. Sometimes, Mikuru would join too, although she usually tried to make conversation, asking about your day or his.  
If you add them up, it probably wasn't much more than a handful of times, but even those few times had become a kind of routine of their own.  
If only you could do now as you did then and just put the drinks down and go somewhere to talk or play.  
“… does it bother you?” you suddenly ask. “Hanging out with me.”  
“… that's a complicated question.”  
“… sorry.”  
“Don't. I said I would help you however I can.”  
_But what about you_ , you want to ask. What about him, who's the one who'll be left to grieve and hurt if you don't come back. No matter how you look at it, you're being selfish right now. A little comfort now isn't likely to change the outcome of the games for you. But it might change more for him.  
And yet, at the same time, how else are you going to try and get him to slow down? He would've kept running on stress if you hadn't asked him to drink with you.  
You wish you had _time_ to handle these things. That both of you weren't on a timer. Well, you especially.  
But wishing isn't going to help. So instead you focus on what you can actually do now. Like taking another biscuit and soaking it in tea.  
“You should have one too. They're pretty good.”  
“You don't usually eat much of those,” he points out, obediently reaching for one.  
“I'm trying to take in as many calories as I can while I can. And the spices are good.”  
“Mmm. A good plan.”

You drink and snack in what almost counts as comfortable silence (still incredibly tense and awkward, but definitely better than when you first saw each other in the train), until the tea actually takes effect and you catch yourself yawning. Too quickly, he excuses himself and leaves with the tray and mugs, and you're too drowsy and sluggish from the strain that's finally catching up to you to argue.  
You stare at the closed door for a few seconds, before letting yourself fall back on the bed with a sigh and drifting off to sleep.

You wake to a knock on your door, loud enough that it probably wasn't the first one. It's one of the Capitol attendants, and as you open the door you're suddenly reminded that you're still shirtless.  
“I'll be there in a minute,” you grumble at them, and either they're too polite to say anything or your usual scary face has stopped them, because they just bow—surprisingly silent—and leave.  
You decide against the sweat-soaked training shirt that has just cooled its dampness away and just feels uncomfortable, and instead pick another shirt—also black—from the clothes dispenser. A quick fingerbrush of your hair to make it stick out in a somewhat less chaotic manner, and you're headed out and towards the dining room.  
To your surprise, Jaime and Emellanna's stylist are also there. It's honestly a relief, because the older man is holding Rin's attention, and Jaime has a talent for lightening the mood that seems to make even Kouji and Emellanna relax a little.  
“Sorry I'm late,” you say as you take your seat. “Did I miss anything?”  
“Not at all,” Jaime says, grinning. “We still have an hour until they give the scores. Are you hungry?”  
“… I'm starving, actually.” And it's true, somehow. Maybe coming down from the stress of the private session has finally re-opened your appetite. Or maybe your body's trying to heal the almost-damage you dealt it. Either way, it's probably a good thing. “What's for dinner?”  
“We were waiting for you,” Rin says accusingly, although she's already started to pick at a loaf of bread with fruits in it, and her glass is full.  
“Sorry. I'm here now.”  
You haven't even finished saying that when someone puts a first dish on the table. Then another. Before long the table is covered in food, and once more you want to try everything, to figure out how every dish is made. There's a salad of fresh and bitter greens and vegetables with nuts mixed in, some dark red soup you suspect might be beet-based, although you haven't eaten any of those in a while, some meat slow cooked in wine, a wide range of choice of rice, potatoes, roasted vegetables.  
“So, how did the private training go?” Jaime asks you as you're trying to fit a sample of each vegetable dish on your plate.  
“Pretty good. I think. I tried; if they didn't like it, there's nothing I can do about it.”  
“Pragmatic as always,” he chuckles. “Tell me more about it later, I've got most of your outfit planned but we can always make some alterations if you want to change your image.”  
“You're the pro on that, not me,” you say, taking a bite. Surprisingly, you actually feel almost relaxed, either a lingering effect of the tea or just from Jaime's natural aura.  
“It's because I'm a pro that I should be able to give you the effect _you_ want to have, Amigo. I want you to be who you want to be.”  
You feel yourself heat up a little.  
“I want to be _not here_ ,” you grumble, but you're not actually mad at him, and he seems to understand. Somehow, you actually do believe that he has your best interests at heart.

Dinner goes by uneventfully. For a moment, you could almost forget that at least one person at this table will be dead soon, if not two. You're unusually rested, your body still slightly sore from the three days of training and warm from all the food you've been giving it. It feels _comfortable_. It feels almost like childhood.  
But maybe it isn't surprising, when the comfort of your childhood was built on the games in the first place.  
When dessert arrives, you pick a small, dark chocolate cake and pick at it slowly, until Kouji looks at his watch and quietly announces:  
“It's time.”  
You move to the next room and take some seats. Within minutes, all the stress you'd forgotten during the meal comes back. Sure, you showed something flashy, but the kids you saw from districts one, two and four are going to outrank you by miles. What good is climbing if you can't fight?  
The score announcement starts, and your fears are confirmed. The kids from one and two gets eights and nines, the ones from three six and seven. Kurenai's face flashes on the screen, followed by a ten. Her co-tribute follows with a nine.  
You grit your teeth as Emellanna's face comes on the screen.  
Seven.  
“Good job,” Kouji tells her quietly, and she sighs and nods grimly. Whatever she did, she must have pushed herself to her limits to display it too.  
It's honestly a pretty good score. Your district might actually have a real chance this year.  
And then your own face and score come and you suck in a sharp breath.  
Nine.  
You blink at the screen, letting it sink in for a moment. Nine. That puts you right into the career pool in terms of expectations—and betting starting score, probably. Nine means a good chance at decent sponsors.  
It also means that said careers are going to take you seriously. But you know at least two of them would have regardless.  
“Congratulations, Amigo,” Jaime says, patting your shoulder.  
“You can say that when I actually make it,” you sigh.  
“Tsk tsk. Learn to take small victories, Chrono. They pave the way.”  
You nod, a little numb. Seeing your chances of survival rated like that makes you feel a little bitter and detached. But on the other hand, it feels somewhat reassuring to see that people who aren't personally invested in your success actually think you could make it.  
Out of the corner of your eye, you keep an eye on the rest of the scores. The girl from six scores a seven too, the boy a five. You turn to look at Rin for a second as she makes a crass joke and almost miss the district seven scores, but a hiss from Emellanna snaps you back to the screen.  
“What the _hell_.”  
You stare at the number under the boy's face. Eleven. Almost the highest possible score—you don't think you've _seen_ a twelve in your lifetime—for a boy who seemed perfectly unassuming.  
“Told you,” Rin gloats, taking a sip of wine.  
_Strong and fast_ , Kurenai's voice echoes in your mind. He's definitely someone you'll have to watch out for.  
The rest of the ratings are mostly uneventful, ranging from three to six. The boy you'd talked to at lunch gets a four, but you're somewhat relieved to see the little girl who shared your training station sitting in the higher part of that bracket.  
And then it's over. 

“Well, if there's nothing more,” Emellanna says, standing, “I'm gonna go to bed.”  
She walks out before you can even think to say anything, and the group disperses. As promised, Jaime hangs back to talk to you.  
“So, nine, huh? That's impressive.”  
“I'm glad I didn't risk my joints for nothing,” you sigh. “Remind me not to destroy them in the arena.”  
He raises an eyebrow at you, so you tell him the whole story, as well as a summary of what you've done during training, and the people you talked to.  
“It's hopeless,” you conclude, as he asks if you did find potential partners after all. “From those who'd actually talk to me, the guy from ten probably won't trust me and thinks I'm way stronger than him. The girl from twelve is probably better off trying to stay out of everyone's way as long as possible. The tributes from four… they seem honourable, so I could probably trust them _if_ we were allies, but they're too strong. Kurenai saw right through me, and she probably knows more than she let on. They moved completely silently even though that floor was squeaky. The moment that alliance breaks down? I'm dead.” You sigh. “Honestly, I'm gonna stay well out of her way if I can help it. And the guy with her—he's stronger than me. I can _tell_.”  
“So no alliances, then?”  
“… I'll see how things work out once I'm in there, I guess. If I have to trust someone, I'd rather them than the kids from one and two. But nothing planned for now, at least.”  
“We'll just have to show your best traits in a different way, then, that's all.”  
You raise an eyebrow at him.  
“My best traits?”  
“The way you care for others. And your determination, of course. Now, I was going to go with something roughly in the same theme as your parade outfit, but less flashy and more dashing… more _personal_. Is that okay with you?”  
“… I liked it. I don't think I'd look good in a suit, and some of the more eccentric choices are, uh…”  
He laughs while you try and find a tasteful way to describe them.  
“Amigo, if I was the one to make it, any suit would look great on you. But let's stay with the theme, then.” He nods you in the direction of the dining room. You follow, taking a seat as he pours himself another glass. “So, about your interview.”  
“Aren't we supposed to work on those tomorrow?”  
“Do you really want to wait?”  
“… not really. Go on.”  
He smiles.  
“I thought so. Kouji asked me to help you; he said he isn't good at the whole persona building thing. He's pure in his own way, isn't he?”  
You almost chuckle.  
“Yeah.” You lean forward against the table, mood dampening a little. “I think… back when he was in the arena, my father controlled that.”  
“What makes you say that?”  
“… he never would have thought of himself as an angel or anything like that. Not even to make believe. None of it… none of what I saw looks like his own ideas.”  
Jaime's eyes glint.  
“You're sharp.”  
“Only when it comes to people I know,” you mumble. Honestly, you don't feel confident on this front. Even having been raised with a lot of knowledge passed on from your father and Kouji, the whole presentation and manipulation thing feels beyond you. You can't pretend to be someone you're not, and wrapping your head around the way Capitol people think is still hard.  
“But you pay attention. That's important. But going back to the topic at hand… We don't want to show just your strength. There's plenty of those already, and your score speaks for itself—or rather, it speaks just enough to keep some mystery. So now that they're intrigued, we have to make them _care_ about you.”  
“Like they would,” you snort. “… sorry. Keep going.”  
To your relief, he doesn't seem to take it badly.  
“I think we should show them your courage,” he says. “Unless you want to bank on the romance route?”  
You choke a little.  
“What?”  
“You could make the most of that romantic flair that rose will give you.”  
“ _What romance?! How am I even supposed to pretend something like that?_ ”  
“You know… a secret crush left at home… another tribute who caught your eye…” You give him a sullen look and he laughs. “Okay, okay, forget about the romance. But we still need to bring out your best point _somehow_.”  
“And that is?”  
“The way you treat people.”  
“You mean with awkward silence and grouchy faces?”  
He shakes his head.  
“Look at the people who actually know you. What do they have in common?”  
You stare at him, at a loss.  
“They're loyal to you. They _trust_ you, because you're caring and trustworthy. We have to show that to the audience. To make them feel like you _deserve_ to win. They already know you can; we have to make them think that you _should_.”  
“… no one deserves to win more than another,” you say quietly. You feel guilty just thinking about it.  
“… Chrono. Do you want to come back?”  
You swallow. You… you do want to come back. It's not just about you. You have to come back so Mikuru doesn't lose the only family she has left. You have to come back so the kids who're rooting for you can maybe have some hope. You have to come back so you didn't force Kouji to make himself vulnerable for nothing.  
But every other tribute has people like that too. It feels terrible. It feels _selfish_. Why are _your_ loved ones more important than theirs?  
And yet. At the same time, you know that when it comes down to it, you'll protect them with everything you have. With your life, and with others' too if you have to. No matter how much you hate it.  
“… I do.”  
“Good. Now let's _make_ them bring you back."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is the last one before the games. Really. Absolutely. Probably.


End file.
